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KEJECTED ADDEESSES, 



OTHER POEMS. 



JAMES SMITH AND HORACE SMITH 
II 



t PORTRAITS AND A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



EDITED BY 

EPES SARGENT. 






NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 

BOSTON: E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY. 
1866. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856 

BY EPES SARGENT, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



By Transfer 
Dept. of Btate 

NOV 1 9 1988 



CAMBRIDGE: FEINTED BT H. O. HOUGHTON. 



K 



PREFACE 



The present is the first American edition of the col- 
lected poems of Horace Smith. Many of them have 
been printed in our newspapers and magazines, and 
not a few are favorites familiar to all true lovers of 
poetry. No one can read them without admitting the 
just claim of their author to a high place among the 
sons of song. His humorous pieces, too, are neat and 
lively versifications of anecdotes that usually carry with 
them a point if not a moral. 

While as a poet Horace Smith was incomparably 
superior to his brother, the latter, in Lis vers de societe, 
may claim perhaps equal merit. Spencer and Praed 
were not more felicitous in their poetry of fashion than 
James Smith. The topics show the man and his 
associations, and his poems are so many finished daguer- 
reotypes of London society in_ the first half of the 
nineteenth century. In this light they will always be 
interesting and amusing — and may be admitted into col- 
lections of British poetry, from which similar sketches 
by Swift and Prior, of a grosser period, ought to be 
excluded. It is no small virtue of the popular writers 
whose poems are contained in our present volume, that, 
thojigh wits and satirists, they are always gentlemen. 



IV PREFACE. 

It is to the Rejected Addresses tliat these ingenious 
brothers are mainly indebted for their celebrity ; and 
this work still retains its popularity undiminished. 
It is admitted to be in all respects unique, and perfect 
after its fashion. Indeed, it well deserves the high praise 
bestowed on it by the most fastidious, if not the most 
able critic of his day— the critic who had sat in judg- 
ment on nearly all the authors imitated in this remark- 
able volume. The literary world had never before 
witnessed such an exhibition of the peculiar talent, 
which could be paralleled only by the marvellous execu- 
tion of the mocking-bird. Our reprint of this work is 
from the twenty-third London edition, and the notes in- 
closed in brackets are from the pen, we believe, of Mr. 
Peter Cunningham. 

The prefatory memoir is compiled from a variety of 
sources, and claims no credit beyond that of judicious 
condensation and arrangement of materials. For so 
much of it as relates to James Smith we have re- 
lied generally upon the biographical sketch prefixed to 
his collected miscellanies. A series of papers in the 
New Monthly Magazine have also been freely used 
without special acknowledgment. They are entitled A 
Grejjheard's Gossip, and are reminiscences of his lit- 
erary contemporaries, by Hokace Smith. Other 
sources of information are mentioned in the text. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 

PAGE 

Prefatory Stanzas, 3 

Hymn to the Flowers, T 

AcUlross to a Mummy, 9 

Address to the Orange-tree at Versailles, 12 

Sicilian Arethusa, 15 

The Shiiek of Prometheus, 16 

The Birth of the Invisible, 22 

The Sanctuary, 26 

The Poppy, 28 

The Murderer's Confession, 30 

The Contrast, 85 

The Bard's Song to his Daughter, 37 

The Flower that feels not Spring, 88 

Moral Euins, 40 

Moral Alchemy, 43 

Moral Cosmetics, 46 

Jhe Old Man's Paean, 47 

Answer to an Old Man's Paean, 60 

Invocation, 52 

The Mother's Mistake, 54 

The Sun's Eclipse, 56 

Lachrymose Writers, £3 

"Why are they shut ? 61 

The Libelled Benefactor, 63 

Dirge for a Living Poet, 66 

Campbell's Funeral, 67 

The Life and Death : 

The Life 69 

The Death, 71 

Hope's Yearnings, 72 

To a Log of Wood upon the Fire^ 74 

Unpossessed Possessions, 77 

To the Furze Bush, 78 

The First of March, 79 



VI CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

Invocation to the Cuckoo, 81 

Man, 83 

Sporting without a License, 84 

The Quarrel of Faith, Hope, and Charity, 86 

Winter, 90 

Cholera Morbus, 91 

Keeantation, 93 

Death, 96 

The Poet among the Trees, 98 

TotheLadies of England, 101 

Night Song, 103 

The Song Vision, 103 

The Poet's Winter Song to his Wife, 105 

Song to Fanny, 106 

Song to Fanny, 106 

The Birthday of Spring, 107 

An Old Man's Aspiration, 109 

Gipsies, 110 

Life, 113 

To a Lady, 113 

The Charms of Life, 115 

A Hint to Cynics, 116 

Music, 116 

The Bard's Inscription in his Daughter's Album, 117 

Stanzas, 118 

A Hint to Farmers, 119 

Disappointment, 121 

The Dying Poet's Farewell, 122 

Sonnets, 124 

Morning, 124 

To the Setting Sun, 125 

On the Statue of a Piping Faun, 125 

On a Stupendous Leg of Granite, 126 

On a Greenhouse, 127 

Written in the Porch of Binstead Church, Isle of Wight, 127 

The World, 128 

To a Rose 123 

On an Ancient Lance, 129 

The Nightingale, 129 

Sunset,^ ^30 

Charade, 130 

Charade, 132 

Charade, 133 

Address to the Alabaster Sarcophagus, lately deposited in the British Museum, 134 

HUMOROUS. 

The Culprit and the Judge, 139 

Bonnet to my Own Nose, 1*" 

The Milkmaid and the Banker, 141 

The Farmer's Wife and the Gascon, 142 

The Auctioneer and the Lawyer, 145 

The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger, 148 



CONTENTS. VU 

PAGB 

The Fat Actor and the Eustic, 149 

The Bank Clerk and the Stable Keepers 151 

Piron and the Judge of the Police, 154 

The Farmer and the Counsello)-, 157 

The Collegian and the Porter, 158 

The Mayor of Miroblais, 161 

Eabelais and the Lampreys, 164 

The Biter Bit, 165 

The Parson at fault, 163 

Blindman s Butf, 169 

The Poet and the Alchemist, 172 

The Astronomical Alderman, 175 

South Down Mutton, 176 

Evening: An Llegy, 179 

Patent Brown Stout 180 

York Kidney Potatoes 182 

The Jester condemned to Death, 184 

Laus Atramenti, 185 

The Two Bracelets, 187 

Marshal Saxe and his Physician, 189 

Stanzas to Punchinello, 192 

The Pleasant Tete-a-tete, 194 

An Easy Eemedy 196 

Madame Talleyrand and the Traveller, 198 

Projects and Companies, 200 

Elegy, 203 

Pitt's Bon Mot, 204 

Hobbs and Dobbs, 206 

Monsieur Le Brun, 208 

St. George's Penitentiary, 211 

Diamond Cut Diamond, 214 



LONDON LTEICS. 

Christmas out of Town, 221 

St. James's Park, 222 

The Upas in Marybone lane, 225 

Stage Wedlock, 226 

Doctor Gall, 223 

Table Talk, 231 

The Poet of Fashion, .' 237 

Nest Door Neighbors, 233 

The Imago Boy, 241 

The Lees and the Lawsons, 244 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Country Commissions, 246 

The Mammoth, 248 

Sonnets in imitation of Shakspeare, 250 



Till CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Phoebe, or iTiy Grandmother West, 251 

Time and Love, 252 

Proverbs, 253 

The Tear Twenty-Six, 254 

The Tablet of Truth, 25T 

Club Law, 259 

The Swiss Cottage 262 

Five Hundred a Year, 263 

Chigwell, 266 

Chigwell Revisited, 269 

The Emperor Alexander, 272 

The Gretna Green Blacksmith, 274 

Matrimonial Duet, 275 

Owen of Lanark, 276 

The Triton of the Minnows, 278 

The Haunch of Venison, 281 

Ode to Sentiment, 2S3 



Written by 

I. Loyal Effusion. By "W. T. F Horace. 299 

II. The Babv's Debut. By W. W James. 302 

III. An Address without a Phoenix. By S. T. P Horace. 806 

( James 

IV. CuiBono? By Lord B • < and 308 

( Horace. 

V. Hampshire Farmer's Address. By W. C. James. 313 

VI. The Living Lustres. By T. JL Horace. 318 

VII. The Rebuilding. By E. S James. 321 

VIII. Drury's Dirge. By Laura Matilda Horace. 329 

IX. ATaleofDrury Lane. By W. S Horace, ^i 

X. Johnson's Ghost Horace. 339 

XI. The Beautiful Incendiary. By the Hon. W. S Horace. 844 

XII. Fire and Ale. By M. G. L Horace. 348 

XIII. Playhouse Musings. By S. T. C James. 351 

XIV. Drury Lane Hustings James. 355 

XV. Architectural Atoms. By Dr. B Horace. 85S 

XVI. Theatrical Alarm-Bell. By Editor of M. P Jarnes. 865 

XVII. The Theatre. By the Eev. G. C James. 869 

XVIII. Macbeth Travestie. By Momus Medlar Jamss. 375 

XIX. Stranger Travestie. By Ditto James. 379 

XX. George Barnwell Travestie. By Ditto James. 382 

XXI. Punch's Apotheosis. By T. H Horace. 385 

NOTES TO REJECTED ADDRESSES, 399 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 



The subjects of the following Memoir were the sons of Robert 
Smith, an eminent legal practitioner of London, who held for many- 
years the ofBce of Solicitor to the Ordnance. James Smith was 
born on the 10th of February, 1775; and Horace Smith on the 
31st of December, 1779. The elder son was educated by the 
Reverend Mr. Burford at ChigweU, in Essex, was articled to Ms 
father on leaving school, and finally succeeded to his professional 
business and his appointment of Solicitor to the Ordnance. 
Horace received the same education as liis brother, became a 
member of the Stock Exchange in London, acquired a fortune, 
and retired with his family to Brighton. For nearly half a cen- 
tury they were both distinguished in London society for their 
social accomplishments, and their clever contributions to the 
literature of the period. 

Horace Smith entered active life as a clerk in a merchant's 
counting-house, where he was more attentive to light Uterature 
and the drama than to bills of exchange, invoices, and charter- 
parties. His first literary effort was a short poem lamenting the 
decay of public taste in theatrical exhibitions, and tlie encourage- 
ment given to dumb shows, to the neglect of such sterling pro- 
ductions as the West-Indian and The Jew ; to the author of 
which comedies he dedicated lois effusion, and forwarded it to him 
by the post, with bis own name and address. The communica- 
tion brought to the counting-house an old gentleman of distin- 
guished appearance, whose large and profusely powdered head 
was flanked with cannon curls, and endorsed with a substantial 
pig-tail ; his corbeau-colored suit was of antique cut, and he bore 
a golden-headed cane. This apparition inquired for Mr. Smith. 
" "We have two of that name," replied the nearest clerk, " which 
of them do you want ?" " I want Mr. Smith, the poet.''' The 
derk was astounded at such a demand, and the grave master 



X BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

petulantly exclaimed, " We have no poet here, sir" — and resumed 
liis writing. The poor culprit, unable to deny his identity, 
jumped from his taU stool, and hurried into the ante-room 
the unwelcome visitor, who announced himself as Mr. Cumber- 
land. 

Such was the introduction of Horace Smith to .the celebrated 
dramatist. It led to an acquaintance and intimacy with the two 
brothers. The first literary work in which the young poets 
assisted with their veteran friend, was the Pic Nic newspaper, 
established in 1802 by Colonel GreviUe, for the double purpose 
of vindicating certain amateur theatricals which he had given in 
conjunction with M. Texier, and of checking the scandalous per- 
sonalities with which some of the newspapers were assaihng the 
aristocracy. The other principal contributors were Sir James 
Bland Burgess, Monsieur Peltier, Mr. Croker, Mr. J". C. Herries, 
Mr. Bedford, and Mr. Combe; all of them writing gratuitously 
except the last-named gentleman, who was the editor, and who 
had long been living in the rules of the King's Bench. Of the 
party thus engaged in the conduct of an obscure and short-lived 
periodical, several became afterwards eminent. Ilerries, then a 
clerk in the Treasury, rose to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
Mr. Croker, after attaining the important post of Secretary of the 
Admiralty, was a clever contributor to the Quarterly Review. 
Peltier was made notorious by his trial for a Ubel on the First 
Consul Bonaparte, in which Macldntosh gained his early forensic 
laurels. 

Colonel Greville was a gay and fashionable man, a modification 
of Sir Harry Wildair, and it may well be supposed that the Pia 
Nic, with gratuitous contributors, and an editor within the rules, 
struggled with a sickly and precarious existence. So the colonel 
dismissed the whole corps editorial at one of their weekly meet- 
ings, with the announcement that he had engaged a young Irish- 
man of surpassing talent, who would undertake for a sum equal 
to Combe's honorarium, to get up and edit tlie whole paper. 
Saying this, he left the room, and returned with Mr. John Wilson 
Croker, who, being thus " trotted out," was bent upon showing 
his paces to the best advantage. His conversational powers 
were even then of a very high order, and he exliibited them 
with all the ardor and copiousness of an aspiring Hibernian. 
Cumberland, buttoning up his coat, preserved a suUen silence 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. XI 

until he had left the room. " Well," said Greville, " what do you 
think of my new friend ? He talks a good deal, I must confess, 
but he talks well." '^Hal/of that is true," replied the dramatist, 
and departed in dudgeon. 

The young Irishman did not revive the Pic Nic, and it was 
soon merged in the Cabinet, to which Rogers and Sir Thomas 
Lawrence were occasional contributors, with the old corps of the 
Pic Nic reinstated. But the Cabinet disappeared in 1803, and 
in 1809 was pubUshed the first number of ^the London Review^ 
" conducted by Richard Cumberland." In this work the names 
of the authors were prefixed to their articles, a novelty that did 
not take with the public. The brothers Smith lent their aid to 
their friend, but his journal survived only to the second number. 

At the instance of its projector, they also wrote several of the 
prefaces to a new edition of Bell's British Theatre, published 
about this time under the sanction of Mr. 'Cumberland's name. 
The distinguished editor, who honoured both parties with liis 
friendship, was pleased in having them for his coadjutors ; and 
they were naturally flattered in being thought worthy of liis pref- 
erence. 

Mr. Cumberland died in 1811, and when Horace Smith last saw 
him he was much altered and attenuated, his white hair hanging 
over his ears in thin flakes, his figure stooping, his countenance 
haggard. It was during the early period of his acquaintance 
with Cumberland that Horace first tried his hand at a romance, 
producing one, according to the taste of the times, fuU of monks, 
monsters, trap-doors, and spectres. This he submitted to liis 
friend, and it was returned with an unfavourable verdict. The 
author immediately burned it. " You showed talent, my dear 
boy," said the dramatist, " in writing that work, but you have 
evinced much more in committing it to the flames." 

From the year 1807 to 1810, James Smith was a constant con- 
tributor to the Monthly Mirror, then the property of Thomas Hill, 
Esq., at whose cottage, at Sydenham, himself and his brother 
were frequent guests. Tliis was a favourite resort of the poets, 
wits, artists, and actors of the time; and their merry-makings 
brought together many whose names will live long in the litera- 
ture of England. A symposium at Hill's was quite as memorable 
an affair as a breakfast at Rogers's, though an entirely different 
style of entertainment. 



XU BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

At the Sydenham gatheiings the brothers Smith used to recite 
a dialogue written by themselves, a farrago of nonsense, abound- 
ing in solecisms and absurdities, yet so far approximating to a 
sensible discourse as to mislead a careless or obtuse hstener. As 
it was gravely deUvered, the interlocutors appeared to be deeply 
interested, and at times excited; and as "true no-meaning 
puzzles more than wit," it became difficult to discover that the 
whole was a piece of solemn Tom-foolery. Hill's habitual guests 
were too sharp-witted to be themselves entrapped, but the hoax 
was reserved for the embarrassment or amusement of the occa- 
sional visitors. 

In the Monthly Mirror originally appeared the poetical imita- 
tions entitled Horace in London^ which were subsequently pub- 
lished in a single volume by Mr. Miller, who purchased half the 
copyright of the Rejected Addresses. Both brothers contributed 
to those parodies of the Roman bard ; but the larger portion, dis- 
tinguished by the letter J., was from the pen of James. Possess- 
ing but a fugitive interest, though sometimes the Latin text was 
ingeniously adapted to the characters and occurrences of the 
passing hour, these papers, in their collected form, had but a 
limited sale. They were re-pubUshed in tliis country on their 
original appearance, but the allusions in them have become 
obscure, and their merit would hardly justify their reproduction 
with the notes necessary to make them generally understood. 

Most of the particulars connected with the first appearance of 
the Rejected Addresses wiU be found in the preface to the 
eighteenth edition. TMs Uttle volume appeared on the re-open- 
ing of the Drury Lane Theatre, in October, 1812, the idea 
having been casually started by Mr. Ward, secretary to the 
theatre, exactly six weeks before the first night of performance. 
Eagerly adopting the suggestion, James and his brother lost not 
a moment in carrying it into execution. ■ It was arranged what 
authors they should respectively imitate. Horace left London on 
a visit to Cheltenham, executed his portion of the task, and 
returned to town a few days before the opening, when each sub- 
mitted liis papers to the other, for any omissions or improvements 
that might appear requisite. These, however, seldom exceeded 
verbal alterations, or the addition of a fcAV lines. James furnished 
the imitations of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Crabl^e, Cobbett, 
and numbers 14, 16, 18, 19, and 20. He suppUed also the first 



BIOGKAPHICAL MEMOIR. yiii 

stanza to No. 4, Cui Bono? By Lord B. Of all the rest of the 
original work Horace was the author. Of the eighteenth edition 
(MuiTay's) James wrote the notes, and Ms brother the preface. 
The copyright, which had been originally offered to Mr. Murray 
for twenty pounds, was purchased by that gentleman, in 1819, 
after the sixteenth edition, for £131. Several editions have been 
since published in England and the United States. Its success 
has induced numerous imitations on both sides of the water — 
which only serve to show the great difficulty of the work of the 
brothers Smith, and the rareness of the peculiar talent necessary 
to its accomplishment. 

Soon after the appearance of the Rejected Addresses, the authors 
were invited to meet a large dinner-party at the house of Sir 
Humphrey and Lady Davy. During a momentary silence, a 
deaf old lady who had not caught the names, or did not recog- 
nize the Smiths among their numerous family, called out to the 
hostess from the further end of the table, " Lady Davy ! I'm told 
the writers of the Rejected Addresses have brought out a new 
work called Horace in London, which is uncommonly stupid." 

The company immediately began to talk very loudly and mer- 
rily to drown this ill-timed sally, while the hostess leaned for- 
ward to James Smith, and exclaimed, "Poor old lady! I hope 
you'll excuse her. I have no doubt she was told that the work 
in question was uncommonly clever, not stupid. But her ears 
are always playing at cross purposes." " Yes, yes, I understand 
it all," was the reply. " She hears upon the same principle as 
the Irish echo, wliich, if you shout ' How d'ye do, Pat ?' replies 
' Indeed, I'm mighty bad.' And so is our Horace in London^ — 
mighty bad indeed. Your friend's informant was quite correct 
in saying it is uncommonly stupid ; but there's nothmg new in 
the remark, for we ourselves have always maintained the same 
opinion, and I'm glad to find we have got the public Avith us." 

When Anstey, author of the Neio Bath Guide, was presented to 
Bishop Warburton, the veteran said, " Young man, I wiU give 
you a piece of advice: you have written a highly successful 
work ; — never put pen to paper again." James Smith used to 
cite this authority for the resolution to which he inflexibly 
adhered, not to compromise the reputation he had acquired by 
any future, less successful undertaking. 

He wrote anonymously, as an amusement and relief — and 



xiv BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

scattered about Ms vers de societi in manuscript and in the mag- 
azines, but having won a welcome wherever he went, and a 
desirable position in society as a man of talent and wit, he 
wanted all motive for more serious exertion. 

James Smith's contributions to Mr. Mathews's Entertainments 
were thrown off with marvellous facility. " Smith is the only 
man," Mathews used to say, " who can write clever nonsense," 
— and of all humourists of liis time Mathews was the best calcu- 
lated to give full effect to it ; though his powers, when the occasion 
required it, could take a much higher range. They have received 
a worthy tribute in the beautiful poem by wliich Horace Smith 
has honoured the memory of his friend. The combined humour of 
Mathews and James Smith was first displayed in the Country 
Cousins, which appeared in 1820, at the English Opera, and for 
many nights convulsed the town with laughter. 

In the two succeeding years, and with the same prosperous 
result, tlie Trip to France, and the Trip to America, were pro- 
duced. 

For these latter works Mr. Mathews paid him a thousand 
pounds — a sum to which the receiver seldom made allusion with- 
out shrugging liis shoulders, and ejaculating, " A thousand pounds 
for nonsense!" At other times he would contrast this large 
amount with the miserable fifteen pounds given to Milton for his 
Paradise Lost; reconciUng himself, however, to the disproportion 
by quoting from the well-known couplet, that the real value of 
a thing "is as much money as 'twill bring;" — and adding, that 
his scrimble-scramble stuff always filled the theatre, and replen- 
ished the treasury. 

At a later period he was still better paid for a more trifling 
exertion of his muse ; for having met at a dinner-party the late 
Mr. Strahan, the King's printer, then suffering from gout and old 
age, though his intellectual faculties remained unimpaired, he sent 
him next morning the following Jeu d' esprit : — 

"Your lower limbs seem'd far from stout, 
When last I saw you -walk ; 
The cause I presently found out, 
When you began to talk. 

" The poTver that props the body's length 
In due proportion spread, 
In you moiints upwards, and the strength 
All settles in the head." 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. XV 

This compliment proved so liiglily acceptable to the old gentle- 
man, that he made an immediate codicil to his will, by which he 
bequeathed to the writer the sum of three hundred pounds ! 

As one of his earhest recollections, James Smith would relate 
that he had once been patted on the head by Lord Mansfield, as 
he stopped for a minute to converse, with the narrator's father in 
Highgate church-yard. The imposition of tliis judicial hand, 
however, did not inspire him with any ardent love of the profes- 
sion for which he was destined. The passion, which in him mas- 
tered all others, was a fervent devotion to the drama. For many 
years he was never absent from either of the principal theatres 
on the first performance of a new piece ; and during the greater 
portion of Ms life his favourite lounge was in the boxes or the 
green-room, where, above aU places, his appearance, manners, 
and wit, secured him a welcome and flattering reception. 

Though James Smith only amused himself with letters, and 
threw off liis " copies of verses" with great facility, for liis lady 
fi-iends, the Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems that he permitted to 
be printed, almost merit the praise bestoAved on them by a 
naturally partial critic. " His poetry," says his brother Horace, 
" in which the sportive sallies of his fancy and the corruscations 
of his wit seem to find a more congenial element for their display, 
is ever terse, buoyant, racy, and delightful. Modulated by a fine, 
almost a fastidious ear, you seldom meet an inharmonious line, 
a forced inversion, or an inaccurate rhyme ; a mei'it the more 
difficult of attainment, because his proneness to antithesis, brevity, 
and epigram, led liim to sharpen almost every stanza into a 
point. 

" In double rhymes, the paucity of which in our language pre- 
sents an almost insurmountable barrier to their extensive use, he 
took such especial delight, that it may be questioned whether any 
A',Titer can compete with him in the frequency and the happiness 
of their introduction. His facility, however, did not betray liim 
into slovenhness ; his ' easy writing' was never ' hard reading ;' 
and if — because Iris works are not more bulky — he is finally to be 
em'oUed among the ' mob of gentlemen,' who gleam 

" ' Like twinkling stars the miscellanies o'er,' 

he will undoubtedly shine with no inferior or unconspicuous light 
in that poetical galaxy." 



XVI BIOaRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

But James Smith owed his social position to other than his 
literary claims. He possessed fine colloquial powers, was always 
genial and good-natured, set off Ms great personal attractions by 
scrupulous attention to dress, and was in aU respects a thorough 
gentleman. " It was difficult," wrote one who was intimately 
acquainted with him in liis latter years, " to pass an evening in 
his company without feeUng in better humour with the world ; 
such was the influence of his inexhaustible fund of amusement 
and information, his lightness, hveUness, and good sense. No 
man ever excelled him in starting a pleasant topic of conversa- 
tion, and sustaining it ; nor was it well possible for a party of 
moderate dimensions, when he was of it, to be duU. The droll 
anecdote, the apt illustration, the shrewd remark, a trait of 
humour from Fielding, a scrap of a song from the Beggar's Opera, 
a knock-down retort of Johnson's, a couplet from Pope or Dry- 
den, — all seemed to come as they were wanted ; and as he was 
always just as ready to listen as to talk, they acted, each in turn, 
as a sort of challenge to the company to bring forth tlieir budgets, 
and contribute towards the feast. As he disliked argument, and 
never lost his temper, or wHlingly gave offence, it would have 
been no easy matter for others to lose theirs, or to offend him." 

In the wide circle of his London acquaintance, one of the 
houses at which he most delighted to visit was that of Lady 
Blessington, whose conversational powers he highly admired, and 
to whose Booh of Beauty he became a contributor. To this 
lady he was in the habit of sending occasional epigrams, and 
complimentary or punning notes. 

When not otherwise engaged, he would take his plain dinner 
at the Athenaeum, the Union, or the G-arrick Club, always re- 
stricting liimself to a half-pint of sherry, from the fear of his old 
enemy the gout. The late Sir WilUam Aylett, a grumbling 
member of the Union, and a two-bottle man, observing him to be 
thus frugally furnished, eyed his cruet with contempt, and ex- 
claimed, "So, I see you have got one of these cursed life-pre- 
servers." 

Although few persons had been more constantly exposed to 
the temptation of convivial parties, James Smith, at every period, 
was a strictly temperate man ; an abstemiousness which could 
not, however, ward off the attacks of gout. These began to 
assail him in middle life, increasing in their frequency and 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. XVU 

severity, until, gradually losing the use and very form of his 
limbs, he sank at times into a state of utter and helpless decrep- 
itude, which he here with an undeviating and unexampled 
patience. 

His last illness was not of long continuance nor was it attended 
with suffering, either mental or corporeal. To death itself he had 
ever expressed a perfect indifference, though he was anxious to 
be spared a painful or protracted exit ; a wish in which he was 
fortunately gratified. He died in his house in Craven-street, 
on the 24th December, 1839, in the sixty-fifth year of his age, 
and was buried under the vaults of St. Martin's church. 

Allusion has been made in this memoir to Tom Hill's cottage 
at Sydenham, and the guests who visited there. It is famous 
in the kind report of many men of note. It was much 
frequented by Campbell during his residence at Sydenham, and 
it was there that the Smiths habitually met Mathews and some- 
times liis fellow-comedian Listen ; Theodore Hook ; Edward 
Dubois, afterwards author of My Pocket Booh, a jeu desprit, 
written in ridicule of Sir John Carr's Travels ; Leigh Hunt and 
his brother John; John Taylor, editor of the Sun newspaper; 
Horace Twiss ; Barron Field ; and T. Barnes, who was after- 
wards distinguished as the " thunderer" of the Times. To this 
circle, Mathews with his mimicry, his rich flow of anecdote, and 
his iiTesistible comic songs, was a constant source of amusement ; 
but Hook is said to have been its more genuine and natural 
Momus. Horace Smith, in the early part of Hook's career, 
expressed a total disbelief in his alleged improvisation. One of 
his good-natured friends repeated the remark. " Oh, the unbeliev- 
ing dog!" exclaimed the vocalist, "tell him if I am called upon 
again, he liimself shall dictate the subject and the tune, which of 
course involves the metre ; but it must be some common popular 
air." All tliis took place, and Hook produced one of his most 
briUiant songs. " I made a very humble palinode for my mis- 
trust!" — said the doubter long afterwards, — "and expressed the 
astenishment and delight with wliich his truly wonderful per- 
formance had electrified me. Not without difficulty, however, 
had I been enabled to believe my own ears, and several days 
elapsed before I had completely recovered from my bewilderment, 
for, as an occasional rhymester, I could well appreciate the diffi- 
culty of the achievement." Hook repaid the hospitality of his 



XVlll BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

Sydenham Amphitryon by depicting him as the HuU of Gilbert 
Gurney. Hill also sat for Paul Pry, and was familiarly pointed 
out in London as its original. He hved to an advanced age, and, 
though he met with pecuniary reverses, retained liis freshness of 
appearance, and cheerfulness of disposition, to the last. 

In the year 1813 Horace Smith wrote a comedy in five acts, enti- 
tled First Impressions^ or. Trade in the West ; the authorship of 
wlaich he had concealed from aU but his friend Barron Field, at 
whose chamber, in the Temple, he had agreed to dine on the night 
of the first representation, that they might proceed to the theatre 
together. Mr. Langsdorff", an attache of some German embassy, 
was present, and joined the party for Drury Lane, where they 
took their places in the pit. All went on smoothly until the 
dehvery of a speech by one of the actors, to the effect that the 
money raised in England for a single charity often exceeded the 
revenue of a whole German principality. "Votisdat?" whis- 
pered Langsdorff to the incog, author ; " does he laff at de 
Jairmans ? den I shall damn liis blay." Thereupon he set up a 
low hiss, which he renewed with increased vigour on every re- 
appearance of a certain character, till he succeeded in establishing 
a decided opposition. As the clamour waxed louder the author 
joined in it, loudly vociferating, " off! off! ! " A fortunate change, 
however, took place in the humour of the audience, and they 
finally put down the playwright and his German friend, and the 
piece was successful, being acted subsequently twenty nights. 
A farce of his, entitled Tlie Absent Apothecary^ was less fortunate, 
and was incontinently damned on its first night. 

With Horace Smith, literature and his city business went hand 
in hand. Before he relinquished his counting room a friend 
met him posting westward one day about three o'clock. " Where 
are you going so fast. Smith ?" " Who would not go fast to 
Paradise (Paradise row, Fulham) ? I am going to sin like our 
first parents." " How ? there are no apples to pluck at Fulham, 
yet." "No; but there is ink to spill, though — a worse sin, 

perhaps. I have promised L something, I cannot tell wl^at. 

Who the deuce can hit upon any thing new, when half the world 
is racking its brains to do the same ?" 

" This," adds the reminiscent, who wrote a few months after the 
death of Horace, — " this is tliirty years ago, and now the utterer 
of that remark is within the precincts of the tomb ; wliile the 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. XIX 

intervening time saw no diminution of his regard for intellectual 
pleasures, nor, with much to flatter his talents in the way of 
his hterary labours, any decrease of that modest feehng in regard 
to his own writings, wliich is one of the strongest attestations of 
merit. In this respect he difiered from his brother, who had, or 
always impressed the minds of others that he had, a full sense of 
the merit of his own compositions." 

The success of Horace Smith in the Rejected Addresses attached 
liim to a Ufe of letters, and as soon as he had acquired a compe- 
tency he abandoned the vocation of a money-changer. In spite 
of the reproaches of his city friends he seized the moment for 
retiring wliile independence was within his grasp. " The hope of 
future gain" — he remarked — " might lead him to risk what he had 
secured." This was about the year 1820. When the crash of 
1825 occurred, he was able to turn the tables on those who had 
reproached him. " Where are those now who called me a fool for 
retiring, when I had the independence that satisfied my wishes? 
Who was right ? I pity them I" 

During a residence in France that followed his retirement from 
active business, in conjunction with one or two friends, he pro- 
jected the establishment of an English newspaper in Paris. They 
could never procure the consent of the French government, 
however, nor its refusal, to the undertaking, and it was abandoned. 
During his residence abroad, and on his return to England, he 
was a constant contributor to the New Afontldy Magazine, then 
edited by his friend, the poet Campbell. He sometimes wrote 
also for the London Magazine, conducted by John Scott, a man 
of uncommon abihty in his profession, who fell in a duel that fol- 
lowed his indignant and bitter invectives against Lockhart, and 
his associates in Blackwood's Magazine. He had been previously 
connected with Scott in editing the Champion newspaper, to which 
John Hamilton Reynolds and T. Barnes, afterwards of the Times, 
were also contributors. About the year 1825, however, he gave 
up writing for periodicals, and commenced Iiis career as a novel 
writer by the pubUcation of Bramhletye House, his first and best 
historical novel. This was followed by Tor Hill, Reuben ApsJey, 
Jane Lomax, The New Forest, Walter Colyton, The Moneyed 
Man, Adam Brown, and Arthur Arundel ; aU of which were 
published, we beUeve, by Mr. Colburn. 

Horace Smith was the author of more than fifty volumes, 



XX BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

besides those which he edited. Many of these were pubUshed 
anonymously, and perhaps have never been acknovpledged. They 
exhibit not only great industry, but also great tact and versatility 
in the writer. 

"It was about 1826," says a writer in the New Monthly 
Magazine, " that he pubhshed his first novel. He had some time 
before taken up his abode at Tunbridge Wells, quitting London 
and liis lodgings at 142 Regent-street, of which he declared him- 
self heartily sick. Even at tliis distance of time, we remember 
a dinner he gave there before he started — the last, it is probable, 
that he ever gave in London — and the hilarity of tlie guests, 
among whom were some of the celebrated wits of the time, most 
of whom are now no more. At Tunbridge Wells we soon paid 
liim a visit, while residing in Mount Edgecombe Cottage. He 
was, as usual, kind, entertaining, and hospitable. AVe tliink of 
that time with melancholy pleasure. His quahties were the 
most amiable, the most gentle, in those days, that can be con- 
ceived. Surely, if integrity, sincerity, and real friendUness de- 
serve . happiness, they must be his. There we met an old friend 
of liis whom we have not seen for years — a clever and ingenious 
man; the author of a novel not enough known." A pilgrim- 
age to Penshurst, the old seat of the Sidneys, suggested on this 
occasion, was the origin of Brambletye House. Smith remarked 
that such buildings were the best foundation scenes for novels ; 
and it was no wonder that they had been so often chosen. It 
v^as about tliis time that some one recommended the female 
name of Zillah as one peculiarly pleasing. " To me," said 
Horace, " it would of course be doubly interesting. She was a 
lady of the very earliest descent; the mother of Tubal Cain, the 
first of the Smiths, and of course the founder of my family." 

" Both brothers," continues the writer we have last quoted, 
" were clever men and piquant writers, but Horace Smith was 
something beyond tins. He possessed talents of a wider scope 
than James; his views were more extended; he was more 
intellectually accompUshed ; had seen much more of the world, 
and thought deeper. James was a wit, an agreeable companion, 
possessed of a fine vein of humour, but circumscribed in the extent 
of liis information, and, as a natural consequence, more concen- 
trated in himself. James selected his subjects, for the most part, 
within the circle in which he moved, and continued to move 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. XXI 

tlirougli life. A happy point, well made, it was his delight to 
repeat at the dinner-table or in the evening party. His jokes — 
and excellent they were — thrown off among convivial friends — 
in short, society, cheerfulness, and its accompaniments — consti- 
tuted the summum of his life's pleasures. His frame was not 
active ; his bachelor habits and dinings-out rendered him a sub- 
ject for the gout, to which disorder he ultimately fell a victim. 
From liis office in Austin Friars to liis residence in the Strand 
constituted the major part of his journeyings. Horace, on the con- 
trary, was of an active make. A year or two after we first 
knew liim, he visited Italy ; and returning, for some time made 
France his residence. We first saw James at his office in Austin 
Friars, nearly thirty years ago. He looked as serious as the 
parclmaent and papers surrounding him. He seemed in tliic 
situation as little of a wit as can well be imagined. A joke took 
place on this visit often subsequently repeated. There were two 
Smiths on the same side of the court, and we had very naturally 
knocked at the door of the first we came to. On entering his 
office, we mentioned our mistake. ' Ay,' said James Smith, 
'I am James the first; he must abdicate.' 

" It is difficult to say which of the two was the most witty in 
the social hour. Both brothers may be characterized rather as 
possessors of a high talent for humour, than of that sparkling wit 
which characterized Hook. Sometimes, with all his wonderful 
readiness, it was hit or miss with Hook, who aimed at notoriety 
no matter how acquired. The Smiths were both graver men, 
and would have thought to run a joke too near to a failure was 
akin to one. We have known Horace Smith indignant at Hook's 
jesting, not only ill, but out of place, in liis wild manner. 

" James Smith wanted the cordial spiiit of his brother ; thero 
was, we fancied, Httle warmth of heart about him. He seemed 
to miagle somewhat of Ms professional character in social inter- 
course. On this account we surmise that James will be much 
sooner forgotten by Ms friends than Horace. Both brothers were 
delightful companions. Many an hour of mental depression have 
we felt reheved by their society. The humour and gladiatorial 
displays of wit that occurred in their company, were always 
gentlemanly, generous in temper, unimpeachably moral, and 
never the splenetic outpouring of ill-feeling. Horace, or Horatio, 
as he always subscribed himself, was not only the most accom- 



XXll BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

plished, but the most genial spirit of the two. He was as mucli 
attracted to the society of literary men who made no pretension 
to be wits, and to solid and serious reading as to the gay and 
light." 

Leigh Hunt, in his expressive use of odd epithets, says that 
Horace Smith was " delicious." He never met with a finer 
nature in man, except in the single instance of Shelley, who 
himself entertained the highest regard for Horace Smith, as may 
be seen by the following verses, the initials in which the reader 
may fill up with his name : — 

" Wit and sense, 
Virtue and human knowledge, all that might 
Make this dull Trorld a business of delight. 
Are all combined in H. S." 

Shelley once said to Leigh Hunt — "I know not what Horace 
Smith must take me for sometimes : I am afraid he must think 
me a strange feUow : but is it not odd that the only truly generous 
person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should 
be a stock-broker ! and he writes poetry too" — continued Shelley, 
his voice rising in a fervour of astonishment; "he writes poetry 
and pastoral dramas, and yet knows how to make money, and 
does make it, and is stUl generous." The pastoral drama alluded 
to was probably The Nympholeptj published anonymously in 
1821. Whatever may have been its merit, its circulation was 
limited, and it is no longer remembered. 

" I believe," said Shelley on another occasion, " that I have 
only to say to Horace Smith that I want a hundred pounds or 
two, and he would send it to me without any eye to its being 
returned ; such faith has he that I have something within me 
beyond what the world supposes, and that I could only ask his 
money for a good purpose." What Shelley says that Smith 
tvould have done for him, he was known more than once to have 
done for others with a delicacy that enhanced the generosity of 
tlie act. 

Horace Smith took leave of the pubUc in the preface to Love 
and Mesmerism, pubUshed in 1845, announced as his last work of 
fiction. He kept his resolution in this regard, but his pen could 
not remain idle. He subsequently wrote a series of entertaining 
papers for the New Monthly Magazine. He died at Tunbridge 
WeUs, on the 12 th of July, 1849, in liis seventieth year. 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. XXIU 

The novels of Horace Smith were well received at the time 
of their appearance, and several of them are still republished. "We 
find the names of three, not generally esteemed the best, still 
reprinted in the United States, in the select Ubrary of novels of 
the Brothers Harper. As a poet, his productions were usually 
suggested by the events passing around him, and were printed 
in the monthly magazines of his friends, Campbell and John Scott. 
From these journals they were transferred to newspapers, readers, 
and class-books, tiU they became familiar to the pubUc before 
their appearance in a collected form. They deserve their popu- 
larity. They are written in a philosophic, no less than a poetical 
spirit. They exhibit no ordinary grace of expression, and the 
versification is always harmonious and skiUful. There is nothing 
of the obscure or spasmodic about them, but they are simple and 
effective. The lines on the Funeral of Campbell are worthy of 
the great poet whom they commemorate. The stanzas ou 
Southey and Scott are full of solemnity and pathos. The Address 
to the Mummy is picturesque and animated; and the Sicilian 
Arethusa not only seems a veritable fragment of ancient literature, 
but is as musical and melodious as any verse in the language. 

The personal appearance of Horace Smith, according to Leigh 
Hunt, was higlily indicative of his character. His figure was 
good and manly, incUning to the robust ; and his countenance 
extremely frank and cordial; sweet without weakness. His 
character is succinctly and beautifully described, in the paragraph 
in which the London Examiner announced his decease, and paid 
a tribute to liis memory. " He was a man of correct taste and 
the most generous sympathies, a dehghtful writer both in prose 
and verse, a cheerful and wise companion and a fast friend. No 
man had a wider range of admirable and genial quahties ; and 
far beyond that private circle of which he was the great charm 
and ornament, his loss will be deeply felt." If it would be diffi- 
cult to find words to convey more graceful and emphatic praise, 
it would be equally so to find a man who, from all report, more 
fiilly deserves it than Horace Smith. 



PEEFATOEY STANZAS. 



Talk not to me of Necromantic wights, 

And dread magicians, 
Who, by their potent spells, could conjure sprites, 

Ghosts, apparitions, 
And raise the dead from the forgotten past, 
Each in the perfect mould of pre-existence cast. 

I, though no conjuror, have far outdone 

Such Archimages, 
For, as I culled and pondered, one by one, 

These scattered pages, 
From the dark past, and memory's eclipse. 
Up rose in vision clear my life's Apocalypse. 



4 PREFATORY STANZAS. 

Mutelj each re-creative lay outpoured 

Its own revealings ; 
Youth, manhood, age, were momently restored, 

With all their feelings. 
Friends long deceased were summoned from the tomb ; 
Forgotten scenes regained their vividness and bloom. 

Again did I recline in copses green, 

Gazing from under 
Some oak's thwart boughs upon the sky serene, 

In reverent wonder ; 
Or starting from the sward with ear acute, 
To hear the cuckoo sound its soft two-noted flute. 

Association ! thy transcendant power 

What art can rival ? 
Muse-haunted strolls by river, field, or bower. 

At thy revival, 
Return once more, and in their second birth 
Bring back each former scent and sound of air and earth. 

In social joys where song and music's zest 

Made beauty fairer. 
In festive scenes with all their mirth and jest. 

Once more a sharer, 
I see the smiles, and hear the laughter loud, 
Of many a friend, alas ! now mouldering in his shroud. 



PREFATORY STANZAS. 5 

So, when the hands are dust that now entwine 

These prompting pages, 
Some future reader, as a jest or line 

His thought engages, 
Feeling old memories from their grave arise. 
May thus, in pensive mood, perchance soliloquise : 

" I knew the bardling; 'twas his nature's bent, 

His creed's chief feature. 
To hold that a benign Creator meant 

To bless the creature, 
And giving man a boon denied to brute, 
Loved him to exercise his laughing attribute. 

" He felt that cheerfulness, when unalloyed 

With aught immoral, 
Was piety, on earth, in heaven enjoyed ; 

And wished his laurel 
To be a Misletoe, whose grace should make 
The mirth-devoted year one hallowed Christmas wake. 

" In mystic transcendental clouds to soar 

Was not his mission. 
Yet could he mould at times the solid ore 

Of admonition ; 
Offenceless, grave or gay, at least that praise 
May grace his name, and speed his unpretending lays." 



6 PREFATORY STANZAS. 

If such thy welcome, little Book ! discard 

Fears of thine ordeal ; 
Go forth, and tell thy readers that the Bard, 

With fervent, cordial 
Feelings of gratitude and hope combined, 
Bids them all hail, and wafts them every feeling kind. 



PREFATORY STANZAS. 



Talk not to me of Necromantic wights. 

And dread magicians, 
Who, by their potent spells, could conjure sprites, 

Ghosts, apparitions, 
And raise the dead from the forgotten past. 
Each in the perfect mould of pre-existence cast. 



I, though no conjuror, have far outdone 

Such Archimages, 
For, as I culled and pondered, one by one. 

These scattered pages. 
From the dark past, and memory's eclipse, 
Up rose in vision clear my life's Apocalypse. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



Day-staks ! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle 

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation. 

Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 

Before the uprisen Sun, God's lidless eye, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high. 

Ye bright Mosaics ! that with storied beauty, 

The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. 

Which God hath planned ; 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ; 
Its choir the winds and waves — its organ thunder — 
Its dome the sky. 

There, as in solitude and shade I wander 

Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God, 

Your voiceless lips, Flowers ! are living preachers, 

Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book. 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendour 

" Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," 
O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
Your lore sublime ! 

" Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory, 

Arrayed," the lilies cry — " in robes like ours; 
How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers !" 

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist ! 

With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye. Flowers ! though made for pleasure: 

Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 



ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 9 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoar j 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
Each fading caljx a memento mori, 
Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a tjpe of resurrection, 
And second birth. 

Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers and divines. 
My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 



ADDRESS TO A I^IUMMY. 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) 
In Thebes' s streets three thousand years ago, 

When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy. 

Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear its tune ; 
Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, Mummy ! 

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. 
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. 
1* 



10 ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 

Tell US — for doubtless thou canst recollect, 

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? 

"Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name? 

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue which at sunrise played ? 

Perhaps thou wert a Priest — if so, my struggles 

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat. 
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 

Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat. 
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, 

How the world looked when it was fresh and young, 
And the great Deluge still had left it gi-een — 

Or was it then so old that History's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 



ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 11 

Still silent ! incommunicative elf ! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; 
But prythee tell us something of thyself — 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, 
What hast thou seen — what strange adventures numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations. 

The Roman empire has begun and ended, 

New worlds have risen — -we have lost old nations, 

And countless Kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head. 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder. 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast. 

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled : — 
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? 
What was thy name and station, age and race ? 

Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, Avho quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence, 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, 
When the great Trump shall thrill thee with its warning. 



12 ADDRESS TO 

Why should this worthless tegument endure. 

If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 
Oh ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue, that when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame consume. 
The immortal spirit in tlxC skies may bloom ! 



ADDRESS TO THE ORANGE-TREE AT 
VERSAILLES, 

OAILED THE GEEAT BOtlBBOK, 'WHICn IS ABOVE FOTTE HITNDKED TEAB8 OLD. 

When France with civil wars was torn, 
And heads, as well as crowns were shorn 

From royal shoulders, 
One Bourbon, in unaltered plight. 
Hath still maintained its legal right. 
And held its court — a goodly sight 

To all beholders. 

Thou, leafy monarch, thou alone. 
Hast sat uninjured on thy throne, 

Seeing the war range ; 
And when the great Nassaus were sent. 
Crownless away (a sad event !) 
Thou didst uphold and represent 

The House of Orange. 

To tell what changes thou hast seen. 
Each grand monarque, and king and queen. 

Of French extraction, 
Might puzzle those who don't conceive 
French history, so I believe 
Comparing thee with ours will give 

More satisfaction. 



THE ORANGE-TREE AT VERSAILLES. 13 

Westminster Hall,* whose oaken roof 
The papers say (but that's no proof), 

Is nearly rotten, 
Existed but in stones and trees. 
When thou wert waving in the breeze. 
And blossoms (what a treat for bees !) 

By scores hadst gotten. 

Chaucer, so old a bard that time 

Has antiquated every chime. 

And from his tomb outwoj-n each rhyme 

Within the Abbey ; 
And Gower, an older poet whom 
The Borough Church enshrines (his tomb, 
Though once restored, has lost its bloom, 

And got quite shabby), 

Lived in thy time — the first perchance 
Was beating monksf when thou in France 

By monks wert beaten. 
Who shook beneath this very tree 
Their reverend beards, with glutton glee, 
As each down-falling luxury 

Was caught and eaten. 

Perchance when Henry gained the fight 
Of Agincourt, some Gaulish knight 
(His bleeding steed in woful plight. 

With smoking haunches). 
Laid down his helmet at thy root. 
And, as he plucked the grateful fruit, 
Suffered his poor exhausted brute 

To crop thy branches. 

* Rebuilt 1399. 

f There is a tradition (thougli not authenticated) that Chaucer was 
fined for beatinar a monk in Fleet-street. 



14 THE ORANGE-TREE AT VERSAILLES. 

Thou wert of portly size and look, 
When first the Turks besieged and took 

Constantinople ; 
And eagles in thy boughs might perch, 
When, leaving Bullen in the lurch, 
Another Henrj changed his church. 

And used the Pope ill. 

What numerous namesakes hast thou seen 
Lounging beneath thy shadj green, 

With monks as lazy ; 
Louis Quatorze has pressed that ground, 
With his six mistresses around — 
A sample of the old and sound 

Legitimacy. 

And when despotic freaks and vices 
Brought on the inevitable crisis 

Of revolution, 
Thou heard'st the mob's infuriate shriek, 
Who came their victim Queen to seek, 
On guiltless heads the wrath to wreak 

Of retribution. 

Oh ! of what follies, vice, and crime. 
Hast thou, in thine eventful time, 

Been made beholder ! 
What wars, what feuds — the thoughts appal ! 
Each against each, and all with all, 
Till races upon races fall. 

In earth to moulder. 

Whilst thou, serene, unaltered, calm 
(Such are the constant gifts and balm 
Bestowed by Nature!) 



SICILIAN ARETHUSA. 15 

Hast year by year renewed thy flowers, 
And perfumed the surrounding bowers, 
And poured down grateful fruit by showers, 
And proffered shade in summer hours 
To man and creature. 

Thou green and venerable tree ! 
Whate'er the future doom may be. 

By fortune given, 
Remember that a rhymester brought 
From foreign shores thine umbrage sought. 
Recalled the blessings thou hadst Avrought, 
And, as he thanked thee, raised his thought 

To heaven! 



SICILIAN ARETHUSA. 

Sicilian Arethusa ! thou, whose arms 

Of azure round the Thymbrian meadows wind, 

Still are thy margins lined 

With the same flowers Proserpina was weaving 

In Enna's field, beside Pergusa's lake. 

When swarthy Dis, upheaving. 

Saw her, and, stung to madness by her charms, 

Down snatched her, shrieking, to his Stygian couch. 

Thy waves, Sicilian Arethusa, flow 

In cadence to the shepherd's flageolet 

As tunefully as Avhen they wont to crouch 

Beneath the banks to catch the pipings low 

Of old Theocritus, and hear him trill 

Bucolic songs, and Amoebaean lays. 

And still, Sicilian Arethusa, still, 



16 THE SHRIEK OF PROMETHEUS. 

Though Etna dry thee up, or frosts enchain, 

Thy music shall be heard, for poets high 

Have dipped their wreaths in thee, and by their praise 

Made thee immortal as themselves. Thy flowers. 

Transplanted, an eternal bloom retain. 

Rooted in words that cannot fade or die. 

Thy liquid gush and gurgling melody 

Have left undying echoes in the bowers 

Of tuneful poesy. Thy very name, 

Sicihan Arethusa, had been drowned 

In deep oblivion, but that the buoyant breath 

Of bards uplifted it, and bade it swim 

Adown the eternal lapse, assured of fame, 

Till all things shall be swallowed up in death. 

Where, Immortality ! where canst thou found 

Thy throne unperishing, but in the hymn 

Of the true bard, whose breath encrusts his theme 

Like to a petrifaction, which the stream 

Of time will only make more durable ? 



THE SHRIEK OF PROMETHEUS. 

SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE IN THE SECOND* BOOK OP APOLLONIUS KHODrUS. 

Fresh was the breeze and the rowers plied 
Their oars with simultaneous motion. 

When the Argo sailed in her stately pride 
By the laurelled shores of the Pontic Ocean. 

The island of Mars with its palmy coves. 
The Sacred Mount, and Aretia's strands, 

And Philyra's Isle with its linden groves, 
And Ophir's flood with its shelly sands, 



THE SHRIEK OF PROMETHEUS. 17 

Swiftly they passed — till, stretching far, 
On their right Bechiria's coast appears, 

Where painted Sapirians, fierce in war, 
Bristle the beach with bows and spears. 

At distance they saw the sunbeams quiver 

Where the long-sought towers of Colchis stood. 

And marked the foam of the Phasis river, 
As it flung from its rocky mouth the flood. 

The Argonauts gaze with hungry eyes 
On the land enriched by the Golden Fleece, 

Already in fancy they grasp the prize. 

And hear the shouts of applauding Greece. 

Jason looked out with a proud delight, 
Castor and Pollux stood hand in hand, 

Showing each other the welcome sight ; 
While fierce Meleager unsheathed his brand. 

Laoccion bade the rowers check 

Their oars, as the sun to the water slanted, 
For Orpheus sate with his harp on the deck, 

And sweetly the hymn of evening chanted, 

While the heroes around, at each pause of sound, 
Stretched their right hands to the god of day, 
And fervently joined in the choral lay. 

THE HYMN OF ORPHEUS. 

Twin-born with Dian in the Delos isle, 
Which after the Ogygian deluge thou 

Didst first illume with renovating smile, 
Apollo ! deign to hear our evening vow. 



18 THE SHRIEK OF PROMETHEUS. 
CHORUS. 

When thou'rt dim, our harp and hymn 
Thy downward course shall follow : 

Hail to thee ! — hail to thee ! 
Hail to thee, Apollo ! 

God of the art that heals the shattered frame, 
And poetry that soothes the wounded mind, 

Ten thousand temples, honoured with thy name, 
Attest thy ceaseless blessings to mankind. 

CHORUS. 

When thou'rt dim, our harp and hymn 
Thy downward course shall follow : 

Hail to thee ! — hail to thee ! 
Hail to thee, Apollo ! 

Thy golden bow emits a gushing strain 
Of music when the Pythian serpent dies : 

His eyes flash fire — his writhings plough the plain : 
Hissing he leaps aloft — then lifeless lies. 

CHORUS. 

When thou'rt dim, our harp and hymn 
Thy downward course shall follow: 

Hail to thee !^ — hail to thee ! 
Hail to thee, Apollo ! 

Pan of his pipe and rural science proud, 

Dreamt that his music might with thine aspire ; 

The mountain Tmolus was the judge — and bowed 
His noddmg woods in homage to thy lyre. 



THE SHRIEK OF PROMETHEUS. 19 

CHORUS. 

When tliou'rt dim, with harp and hymn 

Thy downward course we follow : 
Hail to thee ! — hail to thee ! 
Hail to thee, Apollo ! 

From bowers of Daphne on Parnassus' Mount, 
While Delphic girls their lo Paeans sing, 

The gifted Muses by Castalia's Fount 
With choral symphonies salute their king. 

CHORUS. 

When thou'rt dim, with harp and hymn 

Thy downward course we follow : 
Hail to thee ! — hail to thee ! 

Hail to thee Apollo ! 

God of the golden lyre and laurel wreath, 
To thee each poet turns with yearning heart 

And thoughtful eyes, invoking thee to breathe 
Thine inspiration 

With a start 
The minstrel ceased — for over all the bark 

A baleful shadow on a sudden spread ! 
The Argonauts looked up, and saw a dark 

And monstrous eagle hovering o'er their head ; 
So vast and fearful, that transfixed and pale 

They stood, with wild amaze o'ertaken : — 
The vessel trembles, and the shivering sail 

Flaps as if with terror shaken. 
Entranced they gazed — and silent till 

Philas, the son of Bacchus, seized his bow, 

And would have aimed it at the feathered foe, 
But Mopsus, gifted with an augur's skill, 



20 THE SHRIEK OF PROMETHEUS. 

Gently held back his arm, and bade him wait 
This dread portent — pronounce no word, 
Nor dare to challenge Jove's own bird, 

The minister of unrelenting fate. 

Extending now his oar-hke wings, 
Twice round the ship the monster swings, 

As if prepared to pounce upon his prey; 
His eyes from forth his sable shroud 
Shot fire, like lightning from a cloud ; 

But with a sudden dart he rushed away, 
And clove the northward distance, where 

The heights of Caucasus their barrier throw, 
Where crag on crag, chaotic giants bare 
Their granite foreheads to the sky, and sit 

In desolate state beneath their crowns of snow. 
Within these topmost peaks, there is a pit — 

A dizzy, gaunt, precipitous ravine. 
Upon whose rocky floor environed round 

With walls of ice — by every eye unseen. 
With adamantine chains Prometheus lies bound. 

Thither the ravenous wonder winged his flight — 
They saw him clear the intervening height, 

And sink behind it : — every eye 
Is fixed upon the spot, and every heart 

Throbs with expectant agony. — 
But naught is seen — no sounds impart 

The secret of that dread abyss : — 

Still do they gaze half- willing to dismiss 
Their fears and hopes, for over plain and hill, 
And smiling ocean — all is hushed and still. 

Gracious God, what a shriek ! 
The monster with his beak 



THE SHRIEK OF PROMETHEUS. 21 

Is tearing out his victim's heart ! 
Lo ! as that desolating cry 
Echoes from the mountains high, 

And throws its fear afar, a start 
Of horror seems to darken nature's face. — 

Athwart the quaking deep. 

Revolting shudders creep, 
Earth trembles to her very base — 
Air seems to swoon — the sky to frown — 
The sun with ghastly glare sinks faster down. — 

Hark ! what a furious clash of chains ! 
Victim ! thou never canst unlock 
The brazen bolts that root thee to the rock ; 

Vain are thy struggles and convulsive strains. 
Ah me ! what dreadful groans are those 

Wrung from the very depths of agonies ; — 
Now weaker moanings rise, till, worn with woes, 

The fainting wretch exhausted lies, 
And all again is grim repose. 

But still with throbbing breasts and steadfast eyes 

The heroes gazed upon the mountain's peak. 
Till gorged with gore they saw the monster rise 

With blood-stained claws, and breast, and beak : 
And as above them he resumed his flight. 

The arrested vessel shakes. 

The flapping main -sail quakes. 
And all seemed turned to statues at the sight. 
All but the son of Bacchus, who 

With flashing eyes and visage red, 
Again upreared his bow and drew 

His longest arrow to the head — 
When from the eagle's beak a drop of gore, 

(The heart's blood of Prometheus) fell 



22 THE BIRTH OP THE INVISIBLE. 

Warm on his hand ! upon the vessel's floor 
Down falls his bow ; — with shuddering yell, 
And haggard eyes still staring on the drop, 
He staggers back, clasping the mast to prop 
His fainting limbs. Upon the pilot's forehead 
The dews of terror stood. 
And all in awe-struck mood 
Pondered in silence on that omen horrid. 

The sun went down, and far into the gloom 

The monster shot away — but none 
Of the bewildered Argonauts resume 

The vessel's guidance as her way she won. — 
None spake — none moved — all sate in blank dismay, 

Revolving in their minds this dread portent ; 
And thus, abandoned to the sway 

Of the blind wind and watery element, 
Through the whole night the Argo bore 
Those throbbmcr hearts alono; the Pontic shore. 



THE BIRTH OF THE INVISIBLE. 

Scene of enchantment ! vision of bliss ! 

What Paradisaical glory is this ! 

A garden ! a garden ! rapturous sight ! 

More stately in beauty, more rich in delight. 

Than any the Muse, in her leafiest hour. 

Has fabled of golden Hesperian bower. 

Or Fortunate Islands, or fields where the blest 

In Elysium's sylvan beatitudes rest. 

Lovely or rare, none can compare 

With this heaven on earth so surpassingly fair ! 



THE BIRTH OP THE INVISIBLE. 23 

Well, well, may its flowerets thus brightly expand, 
For they feel the fresh touch of the Deity's hand ; 
And the trees that are rustling their branches on high, 
Are raising their arms and their voice to the sky. 
To give thanks to the Lord, at whose fiat sublime 
They sprung from the earth in maturity's prime ; 
And the newly-born river that flows at their feet. 
Is lisping an anthem its Maker to greet. 
Lovely or rare, none can compare 
With this heaven on earth so surpassingly fair ! 

What odorous incense upsprings from the sod. 
Which has lately been pressed by the foot of its God ! 
What fragrance Sabaean the zephyrs exhale. 
Where celestial breath has been left on the gale ! 
Behold ! how the fruits deeply blush, where the sun 
Has stamped his first kiss upon every one ! 
And hark ! how the birds in sweet choral accord, 
Send their voices' first ofierings up to the Lord ! 
Lovely or rare, none can compare 
With this heaven on earth so surpassingly fair ! 

No solace is wanting, no charms that dispense 
A rival delight to the soul and the sense ; 
It is blissful to quaff the nectareous air ; 
To pluck from the branches ambrosial fare ; 
To list to the music of birds and of trees, 
The chiming of waters, the song of the breeze ; 
To gaze on the Paradise blooming around. 
And scent the rich breath of its flowery ground. 
Lovely or rare, none can compare 
With this heaven on earth so surpassingly fair ! 

The creatures now savage, not then beasts of prey, 
'Mid the flocks and the herds fondly pasture and play : 



24 THE BIRTH OF THE INVISIBLE. 

The lion lies down with the kidling ; the lamb 

Disports with the tiger ; the wolf with its dam ; 

The elephant, twining his trunk round the boughs 

Of the palm, scatters dates for his friends to carouse ; 

The giraffe plucks the high-growing fruits ; and each beast 

Makes the banquet of Nature a fellowship feast. 

Lovelj or rare, none can compare 

With this heaven on earth so surpassingly fair ! 

'Tis the garden of Eden, where joy, peace, and love, 

Join the creatures below to their Maker above. 

Behold ! from yon verdant alcove, hand in hand, 

Wander Adam and Eve, till admiring they stand 

Beneath the resplendent pre-eminent tree 

Of knowledge, whose fruit is forbidden. And see ! 

In the guise of a serpent, where Satan appears, 

And whispers melodious guilt in their ears. 

Lovely or rare, none can compare 

With this heaven on earth so surpassingly fair ! 

horror of horrors ! the dark deed is done : 

They have tasted the fruit. Lo ! the shuddering sun 

Rushes out of the sky ; all is terror and gloom. 

The tears of the angels, bewailing man's doom. 

Bain woe upon earth ; the wild animals roar. 

As their fangs, stainless once, are polluted with gore ; 

Flocks and herds fly before them, astounded, aghast; 

Shrieks of anguish are borne on the terrible blast. 

Fear and despair are on earth and in air, 

For thunder has ravaged that garden so fair. 

Degraded, ashamed, sinful Adam and Eve 
From its precincts are driven to toil and to grieve ; 
Then earth gave a groan, a soul-harrowing sound. 
And thrilled in her depths with a shudder profound, 



THE BIRTH OF THE INVISIBLE. 25 

That withered each Paradise tree to its root. 
And shook down for ever and ever its fruit, 
And scattered the rivers — till all was o'erthrown, 
That the site of the garden might never be known. 
And Record is all that is left, since the fall, 
Its exquisite beauties and bliss to recall. 

Then, then in the desert's profoundest abyss, 

Vf here the winds o'er the waste fiercely whistle and hiss, 

In the blackness of night, with convulsions and throes, 

Did Earth her sepulchral recesses unclose. 

And heave up a monster, the world to affright, 

Terrific of purpose, tremendous in might. 

Though his features to none might he ever reveal. 

Gladness and mirth fled from the earth. 

When that fearful invisible monster had birth. 

The hopes and the courage of Adam to daunt. 

It ceased not, the spectre, his footsteps to haunt ; 

His children it touched, and converted to dust 

In a moment his tenderest objects of trust ; 

Birds and beasts fell around him ; where'er Adam walked, 

Before him, in fancy, the murderer stalked; 

More dread to the heart when unseen by the eye, 

'Twas vain from the phantom to hide or to fly ; 

Wrinkles and bloom met the same doom — 

One touch of the Gorgon sent all to the tomb. 

It lurked in the wave, in the air, in the bower — 
An ubiquitous curse, an all withering power — 
Still snatching from Adam his hope and his joy, 
And scaring with dread when it failed to destroy ; 
Till weakened with age, worn with sorrow and fear, 
He felt a cold hand on his heart, and his ear 
Was chilled by the spectre's cadaverous breath. 
As in accents sepulchral it groaned — I am Death I 

2 



26 THE SANCTUARY. 



THE SANCTUARY. 

In Israel was many a refuge city, 

Whereto the blameless homicide might flee, 
And claim protection, sustenance, and pity, 

Safe from the blood-avenger's enmity. 
Until the law's acquittal sent him thence, 
Free from offence. 

Round old cathedral, abbey-church, and palace. 

Did we ourselves a sanctuary draw. 
Where no stern creditor could glut his malice, 

And even criminals might brave the law ; 
Nor judge nor justice in that chartered verge 
Their rights could urge. 

These times are gone ; felons and knavish debtors 
May mourn the change, but who bewails their case ? 

For why should God and King be made abettors 
Of guilt and fraud, the champions of the base ? 

Never may such a desecration stain 
Our land again ! 

But all are not divested of their charter ; 

One refuse still is left for human woes. 
Victim of care ! or persecution's martyr ! 

Who seek'st a sure asylum from thy foes. 
Learn that the holiest, safest, purest, best, 
Is man's own breast ! 

There is a solemn sanctuary founded 
By God himself ; not for transgressors meant ; 

But that the man oppressed, the spirit-wounded. 
And all beneath the world's injustice bent. 

Might turn from outward wrong, turmoil, and din, 
To peace within. 



THE SANCTUARY. 27 

Each bosom is a temple ; when its altar, 
The living heart, is unprofaned and pure. 

Its verge is hallowed ; none need fear or falter 
Who thither fly; it is an ark secure. 

Winning, above a world o'erwhelmed with wrath, 
Its peaceful path, 

Bower of Bliss ! Sanctuary holy ! 

Terrestrial antepast of heavenly joy ! 
Never ! oh, never may misdeed or folly 

My claim to thy beatitudes destroy ! 
Still may I keep this Paradise unlost. 
Where'er I'm tost. 

Even in the flesh, the spirit disembodied. 

Unchecked by time and space, may soar elate, 

In silent awe to commune with the Godhead — 
Or the millennium reign anticipate, 

When earth shall be all sanctity and love, 
Like heaven above. 

How sweet to turn from anguish, guilt, and madness. 
From scenes where strife and tumult never cease. 

To that Elysian world of bosom' d gladness, 
Where all is silence, charity, and peace ; 

And sheltered from the storm the soul may rest 
On its own nest ! 

When, spleenful as the sensitive Mimosa, 

We shrink from Winter's touch and Nature's gloom, 

There may we conjure up a Vallombrosa, 

Where groves and bowers in summer beauty bloom, 

And the heart dances in the sunny glade 
Fancy has made. 



28 THE POPPY. 

But, would we dedicate to nobler uses, 

This bosom sanctuary, let us there 
Hallow our hearts from all the world's abuses ; 

While high and charitable thoughts and prayer, 
May teach us gratitude to God, combined 
With love of kind. 

Reader ! this is no lay unfelt and hollow, 
But prompted by the happy, grateful heart 

Of one who, having humbly tried to follow 
The path he counsels, would to thee impart 

The love and holy quiet which have blest 
His own calm breast. 



THE POPPY. 



The man who roams by wild-flowered ditch or hedge 

Skirting the mead, 

Or treads the cornfield path— along its edge. 

May mark a weed, 

Whose ragged scarlet gear might well denote 

A road-side beggar in a soldier's coat. 

Hence ! terms misplaced, and thoughts disparaging 

Poppy Flower ! 

Thou art the Croesus of the field — its king — 

A mystic power, 

With emblems deep and secret blessings fraught. 

And potent properties that bafile thought. 

When thy hues catch, amid the growing corn, 

The traveller's eye, 

"Weeds ! weeds !" he cries, and shakes his head in scorn ; 

But when on high 



THE POPPY. 29 

The grain uplifts its harvest-bearing crest, 
The Poppy's hidden, and the taunt suppressed. 

So, when our early state is poor and mean, 

Our portion small, 

Our scarlet-blushing moral weeds are seen. 

And blamed by all ; 

But as we rise in rank we win repute, 

Our faults gold-hidden, our accusers mute. 

Why does the Poppy with its chaliced store 

Of opiate rare, 

Flush in the fields, and grace the hovel door, 

But to declare 

That, from the City's palaces forlorn, 

Sleep flies to bless the cottage in the corn ? 

And oh ! how precious is the Anodyne 

Its cells exude, 

Charming the mind's disquietude malign 

To peaceful mood, 

Soothing the body's anguish with its balm, 

Lulling the restless into slumbers calm. 

What though the reckless suicide — oppressed 

By fell despair,* 

Turns to a poison-cup thy chalice, blessed 

With gifts so rare ; 

And basely flying, while the brave remain. 

Deserts the post God gave him to maintain. 

Such art perverted does but more enhance 

That higher power 

Which, planting by the corn — (man's sustenance), 

The Poppy flower, 



30 THE murderer's CONFESSION. 

Both in one soil, one atmosphere their breath, 
Rears, side by side, the means of life and death ! 

Who, who can mark thee, Poppv, when the air 

Fans thy lips bright, 

Kor move his own in sympathetic prayer 

To Him whose might 

Combined the powers — thought-bewildering deed ! 

Of death — sleep — health — oblivion — in a weed! 



THE MURDERER'S CONFESSIOK 

I PAUSED not to question the Devil's suggestion, 

But o'er the cliff, headlong, the living was thrown; 
A scream and a plashing, a foam and a flashing. 
And the smothering water accomplished his slaughter, 
All was silent, and I was alone ! 

With heart- thrilling spasm I leant o'er the chasm ; 

There was blood on the wave that closed o'er his head, 
And in bubbles his breath, as he struggled with death, 

Rose up to the surface. I shuddered and fled. 

With footsteps that staggered and countenance haggard, 
I stole to my dwelling, bewildered, dismayed. 

Till whisperings stealthy said — " Psha ! he was wealthy, 
Thou'rt his heir — no one saw thee — then be not 
afraid." 

I summoned the neighbours, I joined in their labours. 

We sought for the missing by day and by night ; 
We ransacked each single height, hollow, or dingle. 
Till shoreward we wended, when starkly extended. 

His corpse lay before us — God ! what a sight ! 



THE murderer's CONFESSION. 31 

And yet was there notliing for terror or loathing. 

The blood had been washed from his face and his clothing, 

But by no language, wo pen, his life-like wide open 

Eyes can be painted ; — 
They stared at me, flared at me, angrily glared at me, 

I felt murder-attainted ; 
Yet my guilty commotion seemed truth and devotion, 

When I shuddered and fainted. 

No hint finds emission that breathes of suspicion, 
None dare utter a sound when an inquest has found 

His death accidental ; 
Whence then and wherefore, having nothing to care for, 

These agonies mental ? 
Why grieve and why sicken, frame-withered, soul- 
stricken ? 

Age-paralysed, sickly, he must have died quickly. 

Each day brought some new ill ; 
Why leave him to languish and struggle with anguish. 
The deed that relieved him from all that aggrieved him, 
Was kindly, not cruel. 

In procession extended a funeral splendid. 

With bannered displays and escutcheons emblazoned. 

To church slowly passed, 
When a dread apparition a-stounded my vision ; 
Like an aspen leaf shaking, dumfounded and quaking, 

I stood all aghast ! 

From its nailed coflin prison the corpse had arisen, 
And in all its shroud vesture, with menacing gesture, 
And eye-balls that stared at me, flared at me, glared 
at me, 



32 THE MURDERERS CONFESSION. 

It pointed — it flouted its slayer, and shouted 

In accents that thrilled me, 
" That ruthless dissembler, that guilt-stricken trembler, 

Is the villain who killed me I'"' 

'Twas fancy's creation — mere hallucination — 

A lucky delusion, for again my confusion. 

Guilt's evidence sinister, seemed to people and minister 

The painful achievement of grief and bereavement. 

Then why these probations, these self-condemnations 

Incessant and fearful ? 
Some with impunity snatch opportunity. 
Slay — and exult in concealment's immunity ; 
Free from forebodings and heartfelt corrodings, 
They fear no disclosure no public exposure, 
And sleeping urJiaunted and waking undaunted, 

Live happy and cheerful. 

To escape the ideal let me dwell on the real ; 

I, a pauper so lately. 
In abundance possessing life's every blessing. 
Fine steeds in my stable, rare wines on my table, 
Servants dressed gaily, choice banquets daily, 
A wife fond and beautiful, children most dutiful, 
I, a pauper so lately, live rich and greatly, 

In a mansion-house stately. 

Life's blessings ? liar ! all are curses most dire ; 

In the midst of my revels, 
His eyes ever stare at me, flare at me, glare at me, 
Before me when treading my manors outspreading, 
There yawns an abysmal cliff" precipice dismal. 
Isolation has vanished, all silence is banished, 
Where'er I immew me his death-shrieks pursue me, 

I am hunted by devils. 



THE murderer's CONFESSION. 33 

My wine clear and ruddy seems turbid and bloody, 
I cannot quaff water : — recalling his slaughter, 
My terror it doubles — 'tis beaded with bubbles, 

Each filled with his breath, 
And every glass in each hisses — " Assassin ! 
My curse shall affright thee, haunt, harrow, and blighi 
thee 

In life and in death !" 

My daughters, their mother, contend with each other 
Who shall show most affection, best soothe my dejec- 
tion: 
Revolting endearments ! their garments seem cerements. 
And I shudder with loathing at their grave-tainted 
clothing. 

Home and the mercies 
That to others are dearest, to me are the drearest 
And deadliest curses. 

When free from this error I thrill with the terror, 

(Thought horrid to dwell on!) 
That the wretch whom they cherish may shamefully 

perish, 
Be publicly gibbeted, branded, exhibited, 
As a murderous felon ! 

punishment hellish ! the house I embellish 
From centre to corner upbraids its adorner — 
A door's lowest creaking swells into a shrieking, 
Against me each column bears evidence solemn, 

Each statue 's a Nemesis. 
They follow, infest me, they strive to arrest mej 
Till in terrified sadness that verges on madness, 

I rush from the premises. 



34 THE murderer's confession. 

The country's amenity brings no serenity. 

Each rural sound seeming a menace or screaming, 

There is not a bird or beast but cries — " Murder ! 

There goes the offender ! 
Dog him, waylay him, encompass him, stay him, 

And make him surrender !" 

My flower-beds splendid seem eyes blood-distended, 
His eyes, ever flaring, and staring, and glaring ! 
I turn from them quickly, but phantoms more sickly 

Drive me hither and thither. 
I would forfeit most gladly wealth stolen so madly, 
Quitting grandeur and revelry to fly from this devilry, 

But whither — whither? 

Hence idle delusions ! hence fears and confusions ! 
Not a single friend's severance lessens men's reverence, 
No neighbour of rank quits my sumptuous banquets 

Without lauding their donor ; 
Throughout the wide county I'm famed for my bounty, 

All hold me in honour. 

Let the dotard and craven by fear be enslaven. 

They have vanished ! How fast fly these images ghastly. 

When in firm self-reliance. 
You determine on treating the brain's sickly cheating, 

With scorn and defiance ! 

Ha ha ! I am fearless henceforward and tearless. 

No coinage of fancy, no dream's necromancy 

Shall sadden and darken — God help me I — hist — hearken ! 

'Tis the shriek soul-appalling he uttered when falling ! 

By day thus affrighted, 'tis worse when benighted ; 
With the clock's midnight boom, from the church on his 
tomb, 



THE CONTRAST. 35 

There comes a sharp screaming too fearful for dreaming ; 
Bone fingers unholy draw the foot curtains slowly, 

God ! how they stare at me, flare at me, glare at me, 

Those eyes of a Gorgon ! 
Beneath the clothes sinking with shuddering shrinking, 
A mental orgasm and bodily spasm 

Convulse every organ. 

Nerves a thousand times stronger could bear it no longer, 
Grief, sickness, compunction, dismay in conjunction. 
Nights and days ghost-prolific, more grim and terrific 

Than judges and juries. 
Make the heart writhe and falter more than gibbet and 

halter. 
Arrest me, secure me, seize, handcuff, immure me ! 

1 own my transgression — will make full confession. 
Quick — quick ! Let me plunge in some dark-vaulted 

dungeon. 
Where, tho' tried and death-fated, I may not be baited 
By devils and furies ! 



THE CONTRAST. 

WJWTTEN TXtTDEE ■WDTDBOB TKEBA^B, TirB DAT AFTEE THE FUKEKAl. OF QEOEGB 
THE THIED. 

I SAW him last on this Terrace proud. 

Walking in health and gladness. 
Begirt with his Court ; and in all the crowd 

Not a single look of sadness. 

Bright was the siun, and the leaves were green; 

Blithely the birds were smging, 
The cymbal replied to the tambourine, 

And the bells were merrily ringing. 



36 THE CONTRAST. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier. 

When not a word was spoken ; 
But every eye was dim with a tear, 

And the silence by sobs was broken. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour 
To the muffled drum's deep rolling, 

While the minute-gun with its solemn roar, 
Drowned the death-bell's tolling. 

The time since he walked in his glory thus, 
To the grave till I saw him carried, 

Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 
But to him a night unvaried. 

We have fought the fight ; — from his lofty throne 
The foe of our land we have tumbled ; 

And it gladdened each eye, save his alone, 
For whom that foe we humbled. 

A daughter beloved — a Queen — a son — 
And a son's sole child have perished ; 

And sad was each heart, save the only one 
By which they were fondest cherished. 

For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark, 

And he sat in his age's lateness, 
Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 

Of the frailty of human greatness. 

■ His silver beard o'er a bosom spread, 
Unvexed by life's commotion, 
Like a yearly-lengthening snow-drift shed 
On the calm of a frozen ocean. 



THE BAKD'S song TO HIS DAUGHTER. 87 

O'er him oblivion's waters boomed, 
As the stream of time kept flowing ; 

And we only heard of our king when doomed 
To know that his strength was going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge, 

Bj weakness rent asunder, 
A part of the wreck of the Royal George, 

For the people's pity and wonder. 



THE BARD'S SONG TO HIS DAUGHTER. 

Daughter dear, my darling child, 

Prop of my mortal pilgrimage. 
Thou who hast care and pain beguiled, 

And wreathed with Spring my wintry age — 
Through thee a second prospect opes 

Of life, when but to live is glee, 
And jocund joys, and youthful hopes. 

Come thronging to my heart through thee. 

Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers 

Where love and youth their transports gave ; 
While forward still thou strewest flowers, 

And bidst me live beyond the grave. 
For still my blood in thee shall flow, 

Perhaps to warm a distant line. 
Thy face my lineaments shall show. 

And even my thoughts survive in thine. 

Yes, Daughter, when this tongue is mute — 
This heart is dust — these eyes are closed, 

And thou art singing to thy lute 
Some stanza by thy sire composed, 



38 THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT SPRING. 

To friends around thou may'st impart 
A thought of him who wrote the lays, 

And from the grave my form shall start, 
Embodied forth to fancy's gaze. 

Then to their memories will throng 

Scenes shared with him who lies in earth, 
The cheerful page, the lively song, 

The woodland walk, or festive mirth; 
Then may they heave the pensive sigh 

That friendship seeks not to control, 
And from the fixed and thoughtful eye 

The half unconscious tears may roll : 

Such now bedew my cheek — but mine 

Are drops of gratitude and love, 
That mingle human with divine — 

The gift below, its source above. — 
How exquisitely dear thou art 

Can only be by tears express'd, 
And the fond thrilling of my heart 

While thus I clasp thee to my breast. 



THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT SPRING. 

From the prisons dark of the circling bark 
The leaves of tenderest green are glancing ; 

They gambol on high in the bright blue sky, 
Fondly with spring's young Zephyrs dancing, 

While music and joy and jubilee gush 

From the lark and linnet, the blackbird and thrush. 



THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT SPRING. 39 

The butterfly springs on its new-born wings, 
The dormouse starts from his wintry sleeping ; 

The flowers of earth find a second birth, 
To light and life from the darkness leaping : 

The roses and tulips will soon resume 

Their youth's first perfume and primitive bloom. 

What renders me sad when all nature glad 
The heart of each living creature cheers ? 

I laid in the bosom of earth a blossom. 
And watered its bed with a father's tears; 

But the grave has no spring, and I still deplore 

That the floweret I planted comes up no more ! 

That eye whose soft blue, of the firmament's hue, 
Expressed all holy and heavenly things, — 

Those ringlets bright, which scattered a light 
Such as angels shake from their sunny wings — 

That cheek, in whose freshness my heart had trust — 

All — all have perished — my daughter is dust ! 

Yet the blaze sublime of thy virtue's prime. 
Still gilds my tears and a balm supplies, 

As the matin ray of the god of day 

Brightens the dew which at last it dries : 

Yes, Fanny ! I cannot regret thy clay. 

When I think where thy spirit has winged its way. 

So wither we all — so flourish and fall, 

Like the flowers and weeds that in churchyards wave ; 
Our leaves we spread over comrades dead. 

And blossom and bloom with our root in the grave ; — 
Springing from earth into earth we are thrust, 
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust ! 



40 MORAL RUINS. 

If death's -worst smart is to feel that we part 
From those we love and shall see no more, 

It softens its sting to know that we wing 

Our flight to the friends who have gone before ; 

And the grave is a boon and a blessing to me, 

If it waft me, Fannj, my daughter, to thee ! 



MORAL RUINS. 



Asia's rock-hollowed Fanes, first-born of Time, 
In sculpture's prime. 

Wrought by the ceaseless toil of many a race, 
Whom none may trace, 

Have crumbled back to wastes of ragged stone. 

And formless caverns, desolate and lone ; — 

Egypt's stern Temples, whose colossal mound, 

Sphinx-guarded, frowned 

From brows of Granite challenges to Fate, 
And human hate, 

Are giant ruins in a desert land, 

Or sunk to sculptured quarries in the sand. 

The marble miracles of Greece and Rome, 
Temple and Dome, 

Art's masterpieces, awful in the excess 
Of loveliness. 

Hallowed by statued Gods which might be thought 

To be themselves by the Celestials wrought, 



MORAL RUINS. 41 

Where are thej now ? — their majesty august 

Grovels in dust. 
Time on their altars prone their ruins flings 

As offerings, 
Forming a lair whence ominous bird and brute 
Their wailful Misei-eres howl and hoot. 

Down from its height the Druid's sacred stone 
In sport is thrown, 

And many a Christian Fane have change and hate 
Made desolate, 

Prostrating saint, apostle, statue, bust, 

With Pagan deities to mingle dust. 

On these dear sepulchres of buried days 
How sad to gaze! 

Yet, since their substances were perishable, 
And hands unstable 

[Jpreared their piles, no wonder that decay 

Both man and monument should sweep away. 

Ah me I how much more saddened is my mood, 
How heart-subdued, 

The ruins and the wrecks when I behold 
By time unrolled, 

Of all the Faiths that man has ever known, 

W(Ji'ld- worshipped once — now spurned and overthrown ! 

Religions — from the soul deriving breath, 

Should know no death ; 

Yet do they perish, mingling their remains 
With fallen fanes ; 

Creeds, canons, dogmas, councils, are the wrecked 

And mouldering Masonry of intellect. 



42 MORAL RUINS. 

Apis, Osiris, paramount of yore 

On Egypt's shore, 

Woden and Thor, through the wide North adored, 
With blood outpoured; 

Jove, and the multiform Divinities, 

To whom the Pagan nations bowed their knees 

Lo! they are cast aside, dethroned, forlorn, 
Defaced, out-worn, 

Like the world's childish dolls, which but insult 
Its age adult. 

Or prostrate scarecrows, on whose rags we tread, 

With scorn proportioned to our former dread. 

Alas for human reason ! all is change 

Ceaseless and strange ; 

All ages form new systems, leaving heirs 
To cancel theirs : 

The future can but imitate the past, 

And instability alone will last. — 

Is there no compass left, by which to steer 

This erring sphere ? 

No tie that may indissolubly bind 

To God, mankind ? 

No code that may defy time's sharpest tooth? 

No fixed, immutable, unerring truth ? 

There is ! there is ! — one primitive and sure 

Religion pure, 
Unchanged in spirit, though its forms and codes 

Wear myriad modes. 

Contains all creeds within its mighty span 

The love of God, displayed in love op Man. — 



MORAL ALCHEMY. 43 

This is the Christian's faith, when rightly read ; — 
Oh ! may it spread 

Till Earth, redeemed from every hateful leaven, 

Makes peace with heaven : 

Below — one blessed brotherhood of love ; 

One Father — worshipped with one voice— above! 



MORAL ALCHEMY. 



The toils of Alchemists, whose vain pursuit 

Sought to transmute 

Dross into gold, — their secrets and their store 

Of mystic lore. 

What to the jibing modern do they seem ? 

An ignis fatuus chase, a phantasy, a dream ! 

Yet for enlightened moral Alchemists 

There still exists 

A philosophic stone, whose magic spell 

No tongue may tell, 

Which renovates the soul's decaying health, 

And what it touches turns to purest mental wealth. 

This secret is revealed in every trace 

Of Nature's face, 

Whose seeming frown invariably tends 

To smiling ends, 

Transmuting ills into their opposite, 

And all that shocks the sense to subsequent delight. 



44 MORAL ALCHEMY. 

Seems Earth unlovely in her robe of snow ? 

Then look below, 
Where Nature in her subterranean Ark, 

Silent and dark, 
Already has each floral germ unfurled 
That shall revive and clothe the dead and naked world. 

Behold those perished flowers to earth consigned — 

They, like mankind. 

Seek in their grave new bu'th. By nature's power 

Each in its hour 

Clothed in new beauty, from its tomi) shall spring, 

And from its tube or chalice heavenward incense fling. 

Laboratories of a wider fold 

I now behold. 
Where are prepared the harvests yet unborn 

Of wine, oil, corn. — 
In those mute rayless banquet-halls I see 
Myriads of coming feasts with all their revelry. 

Yon teemino; and minuter cells enclose 

The embryos 

Of fruits and seeds, food for the feathered race, 

Whose chaunted grace, 

Swelling in choral gratitude on high, 

Shall with thanksgiving anthems melodize the sky. 

And what materials, mystic Alchemist ! 

Dost thou enlist 
To fabricate this ever-varied feast. 

For man, bird, beast? 
Whence the life, plenty, music, beauty, bloom ? 
From silence, languor, death, unsightliness and gloom ! 



MORAL ALCHEMY. 45 

From Nature's magic hand whose touch makes sadness 

Eventual gladness, 

The reverent moral Alchemist maj learn 

The art to turn 

Fate's roughest, hardest, most forbidding dross, 

Into the mental gold that knows not change or loss. 

Lose we a valued friend ? — To soothe our woe 

Let us bestow 

On those who still survive an added love. 

So shall we prove, 

Howe'er the dear departed we deplore, 

In friendship's sum and substance no diminished store. 

Lose we our health ? — Now may we fully know 

What thanks we owe 

For our sane years, perchance of lengthened scope ; 

Now does our hope 

Point to the day when sickness, taking flight, 

Shall make us better feel health's exquisite delight. 

In losing fortune, many a lucky elf 

Has found himself — 
As all our moral bitters are design'd 

To brace the mind, 
And renovate its healthy tone, the wise 
Their sorest trials hail as blessings in disguise. 

There is no gloom on earth ; for God above 

Chastens in love, 

Transmuting sorrows into golden joy 

Free from alloy. 

His dearest attribute is still to bless, 

And man's most welcome hymn is grateful cheerfulness. 



46 MORAL COSMETICS. 



MORAL COSMETICS. 



Ye •who would save your features florid, 
Lithe limbs, bright ejes, unwrinkled forehead 
From age's devastation horrid, 

Adopt this plan : — 
•'Twill make, in climates cold or torrid, 

A hale old man. 

Avoid, in youth, luxurious diet, 
Restrain the passions' lawless riot ; 
Devoted to domestic quiet, 

Be wisely gay : 
So shall ye, spite of age's fiat, 

Resist decay. 

Seek not in Mammon's worship pleasure. 
But find your richest, dearest treasure, 
In books, friends, music, polished leisure ; 

The mind, not sense. 
Made the sole scale by which ye measure 

Your opulence. 

This is the solace, this the science, 
Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance. 
That disappoints not man's reliance, 

Whate'er his state ; 
But challenges, with calm defiance, 

Time, fortune, fate. 



THE OLD man's P.^LA.N. 47 



THE OLD MAN'S P.^EAN. 

Vainly, ye libellers ! your page 
Assaults and villifies old age, 

'Tis still life's golden sera; 
Its pleasures, wisely understood, 
An unalloyed unfailing good, 

Its evils a chimsera. — 

Time's victor, I am victor still — 
Holding the privilege at will 

To seize him by the forelock ; 
On me would he return the grasp, 
He finds there's nothing left to clasp — 

Not even a single hoar lock. — 

We blame the idolatrous divine 
Who gilds and decorates his shrine, 

The Deity neglected ; 
Yet our self-adoration blind 
Is body- worship — to the mind 

No reverence diredted. 

Greybeards there are, who thinking art 
Can conquer nature, play the part 

Of adolescent friskers ; 
Swindlers and counterfeits of truth. 
They strive to cheat us by false youth, 

False teeth, hair, eyebrows, whiskers. 

While to the frame due care I give, 
No masquerader will I live, 
To no disguises pander ; 



48 THE OLD man's P^AX. 

But rather seek to save from blight 
Mj mind in all its pristine plight 
Of cheerfulness and candor. 

A youthful cheer sustains us old, 
As arrows best their course uphold 

Winged by a lightsome feather. — 
Happy the young old man who thus 
Bears, like a human arbutus, 

Life's flowers and fruit together. 

To dark oblivion I bequeath 

The ruddy cheek, brown hair, white teeth, 

And eyes that brightly twinkle ; — 
Crows' feet may plough with furrows deep 
My features, if I can but keep 

My mind without a wrinkle. 

Young, I was never free — my soul 
Still mastered by the stern control 

Of some tyrannic passion ; 
While my poor body, servile tool ! 
The livery wore of fop and fool. 

An abject slave of fashion. 

Thanks to thy welcome touch, old age ! 
Which strongest chains can disengage, 

The bondman 's manumitted : — 
Released from labour, thraldom, strife, 
I pasture in the park of life. 

Unsaddled and unbitted. 

If drawn for the Militia — called 
On Juries, where the heart is galled 
With crime, chicane, disaster, 



THE OLD man's P^AN. 49 

" Begone," I cry — " avaunt ! avast I 

Thank heaven ! I'm sixty, and at last 

Am of myself free master." 

An actor once in every strife 
That agitates the stage of life, 

A lover, fearer, hater, 
Now in senility's snug box 
I sit, aloof from all their shocks, 

A passive, pleased spectator. 

Free-traders, Chartists, Puseyites! 
Your warfare, with its wrongs and rights, 

In me no rage arouses ; 
I read the news, and cry, if hurt 
At Whigs and Tories throwing dirt, 

"A plague on both your houses!" 

Tailors ! avaunt your bills and spells ! 
When fashion plays on folly's bells, 

No haddock can be deafer ; — 
Comfort and neatness all my care, 
I stick to broadcloth, and forswear 

Both Macintosh and Zephyr. — 

'Tis but our sensual pleasures' zest 
That time can dull ; — our purest, best 

Defy decay or capture. 
A landscape — book — a work of art — 
My friends, my home — still fill my heart 

With undiminished rapture. 

Fled some few years, old Time may try 
Again to wake my rhyme, when I, 
Obeying the vagary, 
3 



50 ANSWER TO 

May thus subscribe the muse's frisk: 
" Mj pensive public — yours ! — a brisk 
Young Septuagenary !" 



ANSWER TO "AN OLD MAN'S PJEAN." 

WRITTEN (invitd Minervd) at the instigation op j. h. 

Thou greybeard gay ! whose muse — (perchance 
In second childhood's ignorance,) 

Inspired " An Old Man's Piean," 
Hear how a brother senior sings 
Sexagenarian sufferings, 

In strains antipodean ! 

Young, I could take a morning's sport ; 
Play matches in the Tennis Court, 

So strong was I and plastic ; 
Bine out, and yet with spirit light 
And body unfatigued, at night, 

Could sport the toe fantastic. 

Behold me now! — my limbs are stiff: 
An open door, an east- wind's whiff, 

Brings sharp rheumatic touches ; 
A chamber-horse my only nag, 
I mope at home, or slowly drag 

My gouty feet on crutches. 

Once I devoured whatever came, 
And never knew, except by name. 

The heartburn, bile, dyspepsy : 
Now I must fast — eat what I hate, 
Or all my ailments aggravate, 

From ache to epilepsy. 



"an old man's PiSAN." 51 

How starving Tantalus of old 
Was punished bj the gods, is told 

In many a classic stanza ; 
And all must recollect the wand 
That whisked the viands from the hand 

Of hungry Sancho Panza : — 

Their fate without their fault is mine. 
Champagne and claret, drinks divine 

As nectar or ambrosia, 
I may not quaff, but — (horrid bore !) 
My sherry from a cruet pour 

And think of past symposia. 

At home my wife will supervise 
Each meal I take. I wish her eyes 

Were sometimes touched with blindness I 
But no — they move not from my plate : 
God bless her ! how I love, yet hate 

Her ever watchful kindness. 

" My dear ! you know you 're bilious — pray 
Avoid the turtle soup to-day, 

And do not touch the salmon ; 
Just take a chicken wing, or leg, 
But no rich sauce — and let me beg 

You will not taste the gammon." 

Shell-fish — of yore my favourite food, 
Are now my bane ; yet crabs eschew'd, 

Might make an angel crabbed — 
No wonder if I quit the treat 
Of dainties that I may not eat, 

Half starving and half rabid. 



52 INVOCATION. 

Debarred by fond affection's care 
From all mj palate yearns to share, 

A kindness still more cruel 
Gives me carte blanche in all I loathe — 
Bread-puddings, sago, mutton-broth, 

Rice-milk, and Avater-gruel ! 



IXVOCATIOK 

[WEITTEtf IN THE NEIGnBOTJEHOOD OF ABBOTSFOED DURING THK I-A6T ILLNESS 
OF SIK WALTER 800TT. 

Spikits ! Intelligences ! Passions ! Dreams ! 

Ghosts ! Genii ! Sprites ! 
Muses, that haunt the Heliconian streams, 

Inspiring Lights ! 
Whose intellectual fires, in Scott combined, 
Supplied the sun of his omniscient mind ! 

Ye "who have o'er-informed and overwrought 

His teeming soul, 
Bidding it scatter galaxies of thought 

From pole to pole ; 
Enlightening others till itself grew dark — 
A midnight heaven, without one starry spark ; — 

Spu'its of Earth and Air — of Light and Gloom ! 

Awake ! arise ! 
Restore the victim you have made — relume 

His darkling eyes. 
Wizards ! be all your magic skill unfurl' d. 
To charm to health the Charmer of the World ! 



INVOCATION. 53 

The scabbard, by its sword outworn, repair ; 

Give to his lips 
Their lore, than Chrysostom's more rich and rare : 

Dispel the eclipse 
That intercepts his intellectual light, 
And saddens all mankind with tears and night. 

Not only for the Bard of highest worth. 

But best of men, 
Do I invoke ye. Powers of Heaven and Earth ! 

Oh ! where and when 
Shall we again behold his counterpart — 
Such kindred excellence of head and heart ? 

So good and great — ^benevolent as wise — 

On his high throne 
How meekly hath he borne his faculties I 

How finely shown 
A model to the irritable race. 
Of generous kindness, courtesy, and grace ! 

If he must die, how great to perish thus 

In glory's blaze ; 
A world, in requiem unanimous, 

Weeping his praise ! 
While Angels wait to catch his parting breath— 
Who would not give his life for such a death ? 



64 THE mother's mistake. 



THE MOTHER'S MSTAKE. 

Heard you that piercing shriek — the throe 
Of fear and agonisincr woe ? 
It is a mother, who Avith wild 

Despairing looks and gasping breath, 
Thinks she beholds her only child 

Extended on the floor in death ! 
That darling Babe whose natal cry 
Had thrilled her heart with ecstacy, 
As with baptizing tears of bliss 

Her nestling treasure she bedewed, 
Then clasped him with a silent kiss, 

And heavenward looked her gratitude 
That darling babe who, while he pressed 
His rosebud lips around her breast. 
Would steal an upward glance, and bless 
With smiles his mother's tenderness ; 
Confining laughter to his eyes. 
Lest he should lose the teeming prize : — 
That darling Babe who, sleeping, proved, 
More than when waking, how she loved. 
Then was her ever watchful ear 

Prepared to catch the smallest noise, 
Which sometimes hope and sometimes fear 

Would liken to her infant's voice. 
With beating heart and timid flush, 

On tiptoe to his cot she crept, 
Lifting the curtain with a hush, 

To gaze upon him as he slept. 
Then would she place his outstretched arm 
Beside his body, close and warm ; 



THE mother's mistake. 65 

Adjust Lis scattered clothes ariglit, 
And shade his features from the light, 
And look a thousand fond caressings 
And move her lips in speechless blessings, 
Then steal away with eyes that glisten, 
Again to linger round and listen. 
Oh ! can she bear to think that he 
Whom she has loved so tenderly, 
Her only earthly hope and stay, 
For ever should be wrenched away ? 
No, no ! — to such o'erpowering grief 
Oblivion brings a short relief: 
She hears no sound ; all objects swim 
Before her sight confused and dim ; 
She feels each sickening sense decay, 
Sinks shuddering down, and faints away ! 

Her child revives — its fit is o'er ; 

When with affrighted zeal it tries 
By voice and kisses to restore 

The mother's dormant faculties ; 
Till nature's tides with quickened force 
Resume their interrupted course : 
Her eyes she opens, sees her boy, 

Gazes with sense-bewildered start, 
Utters a thrilling cry of joy. 

Clasps him in transport to her heart. 
Stamps kisses on his mouth, his cheek, 
Looks up to heaven, and tries to speak ; 
But voice is drowned in heaving throbs, 
Outgushing tears, and gasping sobs. 



56 THE sun's eclipse. 



THE SUN'S ECLIPSE.— July 8th, 1842. 

'Tis cloudless morning, but a frown misplaced, 
Cold— lurid — strange, 

The summer smile from Nature's brow hath chased. 
What fearful change, 

What menacing catastrophe is thus 

Ushered by such prognostics ominous ? 

Is it the light of day, this livid glare, 

Death's counterpart : — 

What means the withering coldness in the air 
That chills my heart, 

And what the gloom portentous that hath made 

The glow of morning a funereal shade ? 

O'er the Sun's disc a dark orb wins its slow 
Gloom-deepening way, 

Climbs — spreads — enshrouds — extinguishes— and lo ! 
The god of day 

Hangs in the sky, a corpse ! the usurper's might 

Hath stormed his throne, and quenched the life of light ! 

A pall is on the earth — the screaming birds 

To covert speed ; 
Bewildered and aghast, the bellowing herds 

Rush o'er the mead ; 
While men, pale shadows in the ghastly gloom, 
Seem spectral forms just risen from the tomb. 

Transient, though total, was that drear eclipse ; 

With might restored 
The Sun regladdened earth — but human lips 

Have never poured 



THE sun's eclipse. 57 

In mortal ears the horrors of the sight 
That thrilled my soul that memorable night. 

To every distant zone and fulgent star 

Mine eyes could reach, 

And the wide waste was one chaotic war ; 
O'er all and each, 

Above — beneath — around me — e very wh ere, 

Was anarchy — convulsion — death — despair. 

'Twas noon, and yet a deep unnatural night 
Enshrouded Heaven, 

Save where some orb unsphered, or satellite 
Franticly driven. 

Glared as it darted through the darkness dread, 

Blind — rudderless — unchecked — unpiloted. 

A thousand simultaneous thunders crashed, 

As here and there 
Some rushing planet 'gainst another dashed. 

Shooting through air 
Volleys of shattered wreck, when, both destroyed, 
Foundered and sank in the engulfino; void. 

Others, self-kindled, as they whirled and turned 

Without a guide, 
Burst into flames, and rushing as they burned 

With range more wide, 
Like fire-ships that some stately fleet surprise, 
Spread havoc through the constellated skies. 

While stars kept falling from their spheres — as though 
The heavens wept fire, 

Earth was a raging hell of war and woe 
ISIost deep and dire, 
3* 



58 LACHRYMOSE WRITERS. 

Virtue was vice — vice vii'tue — all was strife, 
Brute force was law — justice the assassin's knife. 

From that fell scene my space-commanding eye 
Glad to withdraw, 

I pierced the empyrean palace of the sky 

And shuddering saw 

A vacant throne — a sun's extinguished sphere, 

All else a void — dark, desolate, and drear. 

"What mean," I cried, " these sights unparalleled, 
These scenes of fear?" 

When lo ! a voice replied, and Nature held 
Her breath to hear, 

" Mortal, the scroll before thine eyes unfurled, 

Displays a soul eclipse — an atheist world.''^ 

I woke — my dream was o'er ! What ecstacy 

It was to know 
That God was guide and guardian of the sky, 

That man below 
Deserved the love I felt— I could not speak 
The thrilling joy, whose tears were on my cheek ! 



LACHRYMOSE WRITERS. 

Ye human screech-owls, who delight 

To herald woe — whose day is night. 
Whose mental food is misery and moans. 

If ye must needs uphold the pall, 

And walk at Pleasure's funeral, 
Be Mutes — and publish not your cries and groans. 



LACHKYMOSE WRITBKS. 59 

Near a menagerie to dwell, 

Annoyed by ceaseless groan and yell, 
Is sad, altlio' we cannot blame the brutes ; 

A far worse neighbour is the man 

Whose study is a Caravan, 
Whence the caged monster ever howls and hoots. 

Ye say that Earth's a charnel — life 

Incessant Avretchedness and strife — 
That all is doom below, and wrath above, 

The sun and moon sepulchral lamps. 

The sky a vault, whose baleful damps 
Soon blight and moulder all that live and love. 

Man, as your diatribes aver, 

Only makes reason minister 
To deeds irrational and schemes perverse ; 

Human in name, he proves in all 

His acts a hateful animal, 
And woman (monstrous calumny) is worse. 

This earth, whose walls are stony gloom, 

Whose roof rains tears, whose floor 's a tomb 
With its chain-rattling beach and lashing waves, 

Is, ye maintain, a fitting jail 

Where felon man the woes may wail, 
From which no prudence guards, no mercy saves. 

Even were it true, this lachrymose 

List of imaginary woes. 
Why from our sympathy extort more tears ? 

Why blazon grief — why make the Press 

Groan with repinings and distress, 
Why knell despair for ever in our ears ? 



60 LACHRYMOSE WRITERS. 

Ungrateful and calumnious crew, 

Whose plaints, as impious as untrue, 
From morbid intellects derive their birth ; 

Away ! begone to mope and moan, 

And weep in some asylum lone, 
Where ye may rail unheard at heaven and earth. 

Earth ! on whose stage in pomp arrayed 
Life's joyous interlude is played, 

Earth ! with thy pageants ever new and bright. 
Thy woods and waters, hills and dales, 
How dead must be the soul that fails 

To see and bless thy beauties mfinite ! 

Man ! whose high intellect supplies 

A never-failing Paradise 
Of holy and enrapturing pursuits, 

Whose heart 's a fount of fresh delight, 

Pity the Cynics who would blight 
Thy godlike gifts, and rank thee with the brutes. 

Oh Woman ! who from realms above 

Hast brought to Earth the heaven of love, 
Terrestrial angel, beautiful as pure ! 

No pains, no penalties dispense 

On thy traducers — their offence 
Is its own punishment most sharp and sure. 

Father and God ! whose love and might 
To every sense are blazoned bright 

On the vast three-leaved Bible — earth — sea — sky, 
Pardon the impugners of thy laws, 
Expand their hearts and give them cause 

To bless the exhaustless grace they now deny. 



WHY ARE THEY SHUT? 61 



WHY ARE THEY SHUT? 

The following Stanzas were composed while the author was sitting outside a 
country church in Sussex, much regretting that, as it was week day, he could 
not gain admittance to the sacred edifice. 

Why are our Churches shut with jealous care, 
Bolted and barred against our bosom's yearning, 

Save for the few short hours of Sabbath prayer, 
With the bell's tolling steadily returning ? 

Why are they shut? 

If with diurnal drudgeries o'erwrought, 

Or sick of dissipation's dull vagaries, 
We wish to snatch one little space for thought, 

Or holy respite in our sanctuaries, 

Why are they shut ? 

What ! shall the Church, the House of Prayer, no more, 
Give tacit notice from its fastened portals. 

That for six days 'tis useless to adore, 

Since God will hold no communings with mortals ? 

Why are they shut ? 

Are there no sinners in the churchless week. 
Who wish to sanctify a vowed repentance ; 

Are there no hearts bereft which fain would seek 
The only balm for Death's unpitying sentence ? 

Why are they shut? 

Are there no poor, no wronged, no heirs of grief, 

No sick, who when their strength or courage falters? 

Long for a moment's respite or relief, 

By kneeling at the God of mercy's altars? 

Why are they shut ? 



62 WHY ARE THEY SHUT? 

Are there no wicked, -whom, if tempted in, 

Some qualm of conscience or devout suggestion 

Might suddenly redeem from future sin? 

Oh ! if there be, how solemn is the question, 

AVhy are they shut? 

In foreign climes mechanics leave their tasks 

To breathe a passing prayer in their Cathedrals : 
There they have Aveek-day shrines, and no one asks, 
AYhen he would kneel to them, and count his bead- 
rolls, 

Why are they shut? 

Seeing them enter sad and disconcerted. 

To quit those cheering fanes with looks of gladness — 
How often have my thoughts to ours reverted ! 

How oft have I exclaimed in tones of sadness, 

Why are they shut? 

For who within a Parish Church can stroll. 
Wrapt in its week-day stillness and vacation, 

Nor feel that in the very air his soul 

Receives a sweet and hallowing lustration ? 

Why are they shut ? 

The vacant pews, blank aisles, and empty choir, 
All in a deep sepulchral silence shrouded. 

An awe more solemn and intense inspire, 

Than when with Sabbath congregations crowded. 

Why are they shut ? 

The echoes of our footsteps, as we tread 

On hollow graves, are spiritual voices ; 
And holding mental converse with the dead, 

In holy reveries our soul rejoices. 

Why are they shut ? 



. THE LIBELLED BENEFACTOR. 63 

If there be one — one only — who might share 

This sanctifying week-day adoration, 
Were but our churches open to his prayer, 

Why — I demand with earnest iteration — 

Why are they shut ? 



THE LIBELLED BENEFACTOR. 

They warned me by all that affection could urge, 
To repel his advances and fly from his sight, 

They called him a fiend, a destroyer, a scourge, 
And whispered his name with a shudder of fright. 

They said that disease went as herald before, 
While sorrow and severance followed his track, 

They besought me if ever I came to his door, 
Not a moment to pause, but turn instantly back. 

"His breath," they exclaimed, "is a pestilence foul, 
His aspect more hateful than language can tell. 

His touch is pollution, — no Gorgon or Ghoul 

In appearance and deeds is more loathsome and fell." 

Such stern prohibitions, descriptions so dire, 

By which the most dauntless might well be dismayed, 

In me only wakened a deeper desire 

To gaze on the monster so darkly portrayed. 

I sought him — I saw him — he stood by a marsh. 
Where henbane and hemlock with poppies entwined ; 

He was pale, he was grave, but no feature was harsh, 
His eye was serene, his expression was kind. 



64 THE LIBELLED BENEFACTOR. 

"This stigmatized being," I cried in surprise, 

" Wears a face most benignant ; but looks are not facts, 

Physiognomy often abuses our eyes ; 

I'll follow his footsteps and judge by his acts." 

There came from a cottage a cry of alarm, 

An infant was writhing in agonies sore, 
His hand rocked the cradle, its touch was a charm, 

The babe fell asleep, and its anguish was o'er. 

He reached a proud mansion where, worn by the woe 
Of consumption, a Beauty lay withered, in bed ; 

Her pulse he compressed with his finger, and lo ! 
The complaint of long years in a moment had fled ! 

He paused where he heard the disconsolate groan 
Of a widow with manifold miseries crushed ; 

Where a pauper was left in his sickness to groan: 
Both were healed at his sight, and their sorrows were 
hushed. 

He sped where a king, sorely smitten with age, 
In vain sought relief from the pangs he endured ; 

" I come," said the stranger, "your woes to assuage;" 
He spoke, and the monarch was instantly cured. 

Astounded by deeds which appeared to bespeak 
In the fiend a benevolent friend of mankind, 

From himself I resolved a solution to seek 

Of the strange contradictions that puzzled my mind. 

" Chase, mystical being," I cried, "this suspense; 

How comes it thou'rt blackened by every tongue. 
When in truth thou'rt the champion, the hope, the 
defence 

Of the king and the beggar, the old and the young?" 



DIRGE FOR A LIVING POET. 65 

"Thou hast witnessed" — he answered — (his voice and 
his face 

"Were all that is musical, bland, and benign), 
" Not a tithe of the blessings I shed on the race 

Who mj form and mj attributes daily malign. 

" All distinctions of fortune, of birth, of degree, 
Disappear where my levelling banner I wave ; 

From his desolate dungeon the captive I free ; 
His fetters I loose from the suffering slave. 

" And when from their stormy probation on earth, 
The just and the righteous in peace I dismiss, 

I give them a new and more glorious birth 
In regions of pure and perennial bliss." 

" Let me bless thee," I cried, " for thy mission of love. 
Oh say to what name shall I fashion my breath ?" 

" The Angel of Life is my title above. 
But short-sighted mortals have christened me Death !" 



DIRGE FOR A LIVING POET.* 

What ! shall the mind of bard — historian — sage, 

Be prostrate laid upon oblivion's bier. 
Shall darkness quench the beacon of our age, 
" Without the meed of one melodious tear ?" 
Will none, with genius like his own. 
Mourn the fine intellect o'erthrown. 
That died in givino; life to deathless heirs ? 
Are worthier voices mute ? then I 
The Muse's humblest votarv, 
Will pour my wailful dirge and sympathising prayer. 
* "Written during the last illness of Southey. 



66 DIRGE FOR A LIVING POET. 

Well may I mourn that mental sun's eclipse, 

For in his study have I sate enshrined, 
And reverently listened while his lips 
Mastered the master-spirits of mankind, 

As his expanding Avisdom took 

New range from his consulted book. 
Oh, to what noble thoughts didst thou give birth, 

Thou poet-sage, whose life and mind 

In mutual perfectness combined 
The spirit's loftiest flight, with purest moral worth ! 

Behold the withering change ! amid the rays 

That formed a halo round those volumed wits, 
Amid his own imperishable lays 
In silent, blank fatuity he sits ! 

Seeking a respite from his curse, 

His body, now his spirit's hearse. 
Still haunts that book-charmed room, for there alone 

Thought-gleams illume his wandering eyes. 

As lio-htninffs flicker o'er the skies 
Where the departed sun in cloudless glory shone. 

Oh withering, woeful change — oh living death ! 

Lo ! where he strays at Fancy's aimless beck, 
On his dementate brow the titled wreath, 
A mournful mockery of reason s wreck. 

Eoaming by Derwent's silent shore 

Or dark-hued Greta's rushing roar, 
A human statue ! His unconscious stare 

Knows not the once familiar spot, 

Knows not the partner of his lot, 
Who, as she guides him, sobs a broken-hearted prayer. 

Oh flood and fell, lake, moorland, valley, hill ! 

Mourn the dark bard who sang your praise of yore. 



Campbell's funeral. 67 

Oh Rydai- Falls, Loclore, and Dungeon Gill ! 
Down the rocks cheek your tearful gushes pour. 

Ye crag-enveloped Tarns that sleep 

In your hushed craters, wake and weep. 
Ye mountains ! hide your sorrowing heads in cloud : 

As sobbing winds around ye moan ; 

Helvellyn ! Skiddaw ! wail and groan. 
And clothe your giant forms in vapour's mourning shroud. 

Why make appeal to these ? Ye good and wise 

Who worshipped at his intellectual shrine, 
Ye kindred natures, who can sympathise 
With genius 'reft of reason's light divine, 

Ye whom his learning, virtue, lays, 

Taught, guided, charmed in other days, 
Let all your countless voices be combined. 

As on your knees, ye pour on high 

This choral supplicating cry — 
Restore, restore, God ! our poet's wandering mind ! 



CAMPBELL'S FUNERAL.* 

'TiS well to see these accidental great. 

Noble by birth, or Fortune's favour blind, 
Gracing themselves in adding grace and state 
To the more noble eminence of mind, 
And doing homage to a bard 
Whose breast by Nature's gems was starred, 
Whose patent by the hand of God himself was signed. 

* He was buried in Poets' Comer, Westminster Abbey, Ms pal] 
being supported by six noblemen. 



68 Campbell's funeral. 

While monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered, 
Time trims the lamp of intellectual fame : 
The builders of the pyramids, who reared 

Mountains of stone, left none to tell their name. 
Though Homer's tomb was never known, 
A mausoleum of his own, 
Long as the world endures his greatness shall proclaim. 

^Vhat lauding sepulchre does Campbell want ? 

'Tis his to give, and not derive renoAvn. 
What monumental bronze or adamant, 

Like his own deathless lajs can hand him down ? 
Poets outlast their tombs : the bust 
And statue soon revert to dust ; 
The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown. 

The solid Abbey walls that seem time-proof, 

Formed to await the final day of doom ; 
The clustered shafts and arch-supported roof, 

That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb, 
Become a ruined shattered fine, 
May fall and bury him again, 
Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall 
bloom. 

Methought the monumental effigies 

Of elder poets that Avere grouped around, 
Leaned from their pedestals with eager eyes, 
To peer into the excavated ground 

Where lay the gifted, good, and brave, 
While earth from Kosciusko's grave 
Fell on his coffin-plate with freedom-shrieking sound. 

And over him the kindred dust was strew' d 
Of Poets' Corner. misnomer strange ! 



THE LIFE AND DEATH. 69 

The poet's confine is the amplitude 
Of the whole earth's illimitable range, 

O'er which his spirit wings its flight, 

Shedding an intellectual light, 
A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change. 

Around his grave in radiant brotherhood, 

As if to form a halo o'er his head, 
Not few of England's master-spirits stood, 
Bards, artists, sages, reverently led 
To waive each separating plea 
Of sect, clime, party, and degree, 
All honouring him on whom Nature all honours shed. 

To me the humblest of the mourning band, 

Who knew the bard through many a changeful year, 
It was a proud sad privilege to stand 
Beside his grave and shed a parting tear. 
Seven lustres had he been my friend, 
Be that my plea Avhen I suspend 
This all-unworthy wreath on such a poet's bier. 



THE LIFE AND DEATH. 
The Life. 



Hath Momus descended — the god of Mirth — 
To glad the world with his triumphs thus ? 

Or is it a mortal, who tastes on earth 
An apotheosis rapturous ! 

While his worshippers hail him with choral cries, 

And Laughter's reverberant ecstacies ! 



70 THE LIFE AND DEATH, 

He moves like a mental sun, whose light 

Scatters around an electric ray, 
Which every eye that beholds, is bright, 

And every bosom that feels, is gay — 
A sun (it is own'd by a nation's lips), 
That hath ne'er been dimmed — never known eclipse ! 

As this Spirit sits on his throne elate. 

They tender him homage from every sphere : 

From the rich, the noble, the wise, the great — 
Nay, even the King is a courtier here ; 

And vassal-like makes his crown submit 

To the majesty of sceptred Wit. 

They press him with flattering words and wiles 
To honour and grace their lordly halls. 

And impart by his mirth, and songs, and smiles, 
A glory and zest to their festivals. 

For they know that his presence can banish gloom, 

And give light and life to the banquet-room. 

On what aching hearts hath he gladness poured ! 

In scenes unnumbered, what countless throngs, 
From the public stage to the festive board, 

Have, enraptured, hung on his mirthful songs ! 
At his wit's incessantly flashing light. 
What shouts have startled the ear of night ! 

Ask you the name of the gifted man. 

Whose genius thus could enchant the world ; 

Whose fame through both the hemispheres ran — 
Whose flag of triumph was never furled ? — 

You ask it not, for you know that none 

But Mathews alone has such trophies won ! 



THE LIFE AND DEATH. 71 



The Death. 



Hark to the toll of the passing bell, 

Which " swinging slow with solemn roar," 

Carries the dismal funeral knell 

O'er the thrilling waves of the Plymouth shore ; 

And is borne afar by the shuddering breeze, 

From Wembury's cliffs to Mount-Edgecombe's trees. 

Nature appears to have thrown a pall 

Over that landscape so rich and fair, 
For a withering gloom and sadness fall 

Alike upon ocean, earth, and air. 
And the darkling heights in the distance show 
Like spectral mourners, grim with woe. 

The bittern's wail and the sea-mew's cry. 
Seem to share the deep and wide distress. 

As their wings they spread, and seaward fly 
Away from that scene of wretchedness : 

And the booming moan of the distant surge 

Falls on the ear like a doleful dirge. 

Hark ! 'tis a female cry — 'tis the sound 
Of a widow's heart with anguish torn; 

A groan succeeds, and the sob profound 
Of a sireless son, aghast, forlorn ! 

And oh ! how loving and loved they were, 

Their own 'reft hearts can alone declare. 

Behold ! from St. Andrew's Church appears 

A funeral train in its sad array. 
Whose mourners, blind in their staunchless tears. 

With faltering footsteps feel their way 
To the bones and mould thrown up in a heap 
Beside a sepulchre dark and deep. 



72 hope's yearnings. 

The coffin is sunk, the prayer is poured — 

" Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust." 
They sprinkle earth on the rattling board, 

And they whose heads o'er the grave are thrust, 
Draw back at the sound with a shuddering start, 
For its awful echoes thrill their heart. 

As if it were sent to reveal and bless, 
A ray through the lurid vapour beams — 

Pierces the sepulchre's ghastliness, 

And lo ! on the coffin's plate it gleams. 

Th' inscription now may be plainly read — 

" Charles Mathews''' — that '5 the name of the dead. 

God ! can it be ? — is that breath resigned 

Which rendered the brightest joy more bright? 

Does that life of life, and mind of mind, 
The circle's soul, and the world's delight. 

Lie stretched in the coffin's silence, dark. 

Cold — lifeless — ghastly — stiff and stark ? 

What proofs of his friendship, wit, and worth. 
On memory crowd, and recall past years ! 

But I Cannot give their record birth, 

For my heart and my eyes are both in tears : 

Let me drop the pen — let me quit the lay. 

And rush from my own sad thoughts away. 



HOPE'S YEARNINGS. 



How sweet it is, when wearied with the jars 

Of wrangling sects, each soured with bigot leaven, 

To let the Spirit burst its prison bars 

And soar into the deep repose of Heaven ! 



hope's yearnings. 73 

How sweet it is, when sick with strife and noise 
Of the fell brood that owes to faction birth, 

To turn to Nature's tranquillizing joys. 

And taste the soothing harmonies of Earth ! 

But though the lovely Earth, and Sea, and Air, 
Be rich in joys that form a sumless sum, 

Filled with Nepenthes that can banish care, 
And wrap the senses in Elysium, 

'Tis sweeter still from these delights to turn 
Back to our kind — to watch the course of Man, 

And for that blessed consummation yearn. 
When Nature shall complete her noble plan ; 

When hate, oppression, vice, and crime, shall cease, 
When War's ensanguined banner shall be furled, 

And to our moral system shall extend 
The perfectness of the material world. 

Sweetest of all, when 'tis our happy fate 

To drop some tribute, trifling though it prove. 

On the thrice-hallowed altar dedicate 

To Man's improvement, truth, and social love. 

Faith in our race's destined elevation, 

And its incessant progress to the goal. 
Tends, by exciting hope and emulation. 

To realise the aspirings of the soul. 
4 



74 TO A LOG OP WOOD UPON THE FIRE. 



TO A LOG OF WOOD UPON THE FIRE. 

When Horace, as the snows descended 
On Mount Soracte, recommended 

That logs be doubled, 
Until a blazing fire arose, 
I wonder whether thoughts like those 
Which in my noddle interpose, 

His fancy troubled. 

Poor Log ! I cannot hear thee sigh, 
And groan, and hiss, and see thee die. 

To warm a Poet, 
Without evincing thy success, 
And as thou wanest less and less, 
Inditing a farewell address 

To let thee know it. 

Peeping from earth — a bud unveiled, 
Some "bosky bourne" or dingle hailed 

Thy natal hour ; 
While infant winds around thee blew, 
And thou wert fed with silver dew, 
And tender sunbeams oozing through 

Thy leafy bower. 

Earth — water — air — thy growth prepared ; 
And if perchance some robin, scared 

From neighbouring manor. 
Perched on thy crest, it rocked in air, 
Making his ruddy feathers flare 
In the sun's ray, as if they were 

A fairy banner. 



TO A LOG OF WOOD UPON THE FIRE. 75 

Or if some nightingale impressed 
Against thy branching top her breast 

Heaving with passion, 
And in the leafy nights of June, 
Outpoured her sorrows to the moon, 
Thy trembling stem thou didst attune 

To each vibration. 

Thou grew'st a goodly tree, with shoots 
Fanning the sky, and earth-bound roots 

So grappled under, 
That thou whom perching birds could swing, 
And zephyrs rock with lightest wing, 
From thy firm trunk unmoved didst fling 

Tempest and thunder. 

Thine offspring leaves — death's annual prey, 
Which Herod Winter tore away 

From thy caressing. 
In heaps, like graves, around thee blown, 
Each morn thy dewy tears have strown, 
O'er each thy branching hands been thrown, 

As if in blessing. 

Bursting to life, another race 

At touch of Spring in thy embrace, 

Sported and fluttered ; 
Aloft) where wanton breezes played, 
In thy knit boughs have ringdoves made 
Their nest, and lovers in thy shade 

Their vows have uttered. 

How oft thy lofty summits won 
Morn's virgin smile, and hailed the sun 
With rustling motion ; 



76 TO A LOG OF WOOD UPOX THE FIRE. 

How oft in silent depths of night, 
When the moon sailed in cloudless light, 
Thou hast stood awe-struck at the sight 
In hushed devotion — 

'Twere vain to ask ; for doomed to fall. 
The daj appointed for us all 

O'er thee impended ; 
The hatchet, with remorseless blow, 
First laid thee in the forest low, 
Then cut thee into logs — and so 

Thy course was ended. 

But not thine use — for moral rules. 
Worth all the wisdom of the schools. 

Thou maj'st bequeath me; 
Bidding me cherish those who live 
Above me, and the more I thrive, 
A wider shade and shelter give 

To those beneath me. 

So when death lays his axe on me, 
I may resign, as calm as thee, 

My hold terrestrial ; 
Like thine my latter end be found, 
Diffusing light and warmth around, 
And like thy smoke my spirit bound 

To realms celestial. 



UNPOSSESSED POSSESSIONS. 7T 



UNPOSSESSED POSSESSIONS. 

Whose are Windsor and Hampton, the pride of the land, 
With their treasures and trophies so varied and grand ? 

The Queen's, you reply : 

Deuce a bit ! you and I 
Through their gates, twice a week, making privileged way, 

Tread their gilded saloons, 

YieAV their portraits, cartoons, 
And, like Crusoe, are monarchs of all we survey. 

And whose are our nobles' magnificent homes, 

With their galleries, gardens, their statues and domes ? 

His Grace's, my Lord's ? 

Ay, in law and in words. 
But in fact they are ours, for the master, poor wight ! 

Gladly leaving their view 

To the visiting crew, 
Keeps a dear exhibition for others' delight. 

And whose are the stag-haunted parks, the domains, 
The woods and the waters, the. hills and the plains? 

Yours and mine, for our eyes 

Daily make them our prize : 
What more have their owners? — The care and the cost ! 

Alas ! for the great, 

Whose treasures and state, 
Unprized when possessed, are regretted when lost. 

When I float on the Thames, or am whisked o'er the roads, 
To the numerous royal and noble abodes 

Whose delights I may share, 

Without ownership's care, 



78 TO THE FUKZE BUSH. 

With what pitj the titled and rich I regard, 
And exultingly crj, 
Oh ! how happj am I 

To be only a poor unpatrician bard ! 



TO THE FURZE BUSH. 

Let Burns and old Chaucer unite 

The praise of the Daisy to sing — 
Let Wordsworth of Celandine write, 

And crown her the Queen of the Spring; 
The Hyacinth's classical fame 

Let Milton embalm in his verse ; 
Be mine the glad task to proclaim 

The Charms of untrumpeted Furze ! 

Of all other bloom when bereft, 

And Sol wears his wintery screen. 
Thy sunshining blossoms are left 

To light up the common and green. 
why should they envy the peer 

His perfume of spices and myrrhs, 
When the poorest their senses may cheer 

With incense dijQfused from the Furze ? 

It is bristled with thorns, I confess ; 

But so is the much-flattered Rose : 
Is the Sweetbriar lauded the less 

Because amid prickles it grows ? 
'Twere to cut off an epigram's point. 

Or disfurnish a knight of his spurs, 
If we foolishly wished to disjoint 

Its arms from the lance-bearing Furze. 



THE FIRST OF MARCH. 79 

Ye dabblers in mines, wbo -would clutch 

The wealth -which their bowels enfold; 
See ! Nature, with Midas-like touch, 

Here turns a whole common to gold ; 
No niggard is she to the poor. 

But distributes whatever is hers, 
And the wayfaring beggar is sure 

Of a tribute of gold from the Furze. 

Ye worldlings ! learn hence to divide 

Your wealth with the children of want, 
Nor scorn, in your fortune and pride, 

To be taught by the commonest plant. 
If the wisest new wisdom may draw 

From things humble, as reason avers, 
We too may receive Heaven's law. 

And beneficence learn from the Furze ! 



THE FIRST OF MARCH. 

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
And Earth 's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, 
Which, warmed by summer suns in the alembic of the 

vine, 
From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine. 

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the 

flower, 
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower ; 
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits, 
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots. 



80 THE FIRST OF MARCH. 

How awful is the thought of the wonders underground, 
Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent,dark profound ; 
How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed, 
And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed ! 

The summer 's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion' d day 
Is commissioned to remark whether Winter holds her 

sway; 
Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy 

wing. 
Say, that floods and tempests cease and the world is ripe 

for Spring. 

Thou hast fanned the sleeping Earth till her dreams are 

all of flowers, 
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging 

bowers ; 
The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves. 
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer 

eves. 

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave, 
By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave ; 
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their 

wing, 
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the 

Spring. 

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, 
And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of tuneful 

bills. 
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee, 
thou sunny first of March ! be it dedicate to thee. 



INVOCATION TO THE CUCKOO. 81 



INVOCATION TO THE CUCKOO. 

0, PURSUIVANT and herald of the spring ! 

Whether thou still dost dwell 

In some rose-laurelled dell 
Of that charmed island, whose magician king 

Bade all its rocks and caves, 

Woods, winds, and waves. 
Thrill to the dulcet chaunt of Ariel, 

Until he broke the spell, 
And cast his wand into the shuddering sea — 

hither, hither fleet. 

Upon the south wind sweet, 
And soothe us with thy vernal melody ! 

Or whether to the redolent Azores, 

Amid whose tufted sheaves 

The floral goddess weaves 
Her garland, breathing on the glades and shores 

Intoxicating air, 

Truant ! thou dost despair ; 
Or lingerest still in that meridian nest, 

Where myriad piping throats 

Rival the warbler's notes, 
The safiron namesakes of those islands blest — 

hither, hither wing 
Thy flight, and to our longing woodlands sing. 

Or in those sea-girt gardens dost thou dwell, 

Of plantain, cocoa, palm, 

And that red tree, whose balm 
Fumed in the holocausts of Israel ; 

Beneath banana shades, 

Guava, and fig-tree glades, 
4* 



82 INVOCATION TO THE CUCKOO. 

Painting thy plumage in the sapphirine hue 

Thrown from the heron blue, 

Or rays of the prismatic parroquet — 

0, let the perfumed breeze 

From those Hesperides 
Waft thee once more our eager ears to greet ! 

For lo ! the young leaves flutter in the south, 

As if they tried their wings, 

While the bee's trumpet brings 
News of each bud that pouts its honeyed mouth ; 

Blue-bells, yellow-cups, jonquils, 

Lilies wild and daffodils 
Gladden our meads in intertangled wreath ; 

The sun enamoured lies, 

Watching the violets' eyes 
On every bank, and drinks their luscious breath ; 

With open lips the thorn 

Proclaims that May is born, 
And darest thou, bird of spring, that summons scorn? 

"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" welcome, welcome notes ! 

Fields, woods, and waves rejoice 

In that recovered voice. 
As on the wind its fluty music floats. 

At that elixir strain 

My youth resumes its reign, 
And life's first spring comes blossoming again : 

Oh, wonderous bird ! if thus 

Thy voice miraculous 
Can renovate my spirits' vernal prime. 

Nor thou, my Muse, forbear 

That ecstacy to share — 
I laugh at Fortune, and defy old Time. 



MAN. 83 



MAN. 



VEBSiriBD FEOM AN APOLOGITE BY DB. BITEErDAN. 

Affliction one day, as she harked to the roar 

Of the stormy and strugghng billow, 
Drew a beautiful form on the sands of the shore, 

With the branch of a weeping-willow. 

Jupiter, struck with the noble plan, 

As he roamed on the verge of the ocean, 

Breathed on the figure, and calling it Man, 
Endued it with life and motion. 

A creature so glorious in mind and in frame, 
So stamped with each parent's impression, 

Among them a point of contention became, 
Each claiming the right of possession. 

He is mine, said Affliction ; I gave him his birth, 

I alone am his cause of creation ; 
The materials were furnished by me, answered Earth ; 

I gave him, said Jove, animation. 

The gods, all assembled in solemn divan, 
After hearing each claimant's petition, 

Pronounced a definitive verdict on Man, 
And thus settled his fate's disposition : 

" Let Affliction possess her own child, till the woes 

Of life cease to harass and goad it ; 
After death give his body to Earth, whence it rose, 

And his spirit to Jove who bestowed it." 



84 SPORTING WITHOUT A LICENSE. 



SPORTING WITHOUT A LICENSE. 

There 's a charm -when Spring is young, 

And comes laughing on the breeze, 
When each leaflet has a tongue, 

That is lisping in the trees. 
When morn is fair and the sunny air 

With chime of beaks is ringing, 
Through fields to rove with her we love, 

Ajid listen to their singing. 

The sportsman finds a zest, 

Which all others can outvie. 
With his lightning to arrest 

Pheasants whirring through the sky ; 
With dog and gun from dawn of sun 

Till purple evening hovers, 
O'er field and fen, and hill and glen, 

The happiest of rovers. 

The hunter loves to dash 

Through the horn-resounding woods, 
Or plunge with fearless splash 

Into intercepting floods ; 
O'er gap and gate he leaps elate, 

The vaulting stag to follow, 
And at the death has scarcely breath 

To give the whoop and hallo I 

By the river's margin dank, 

With the weeds and rushes mixed, 



SPORTING WITHOUT A LICENSE. 85 

Like a statue on a bank, 

See the patient angler fixed ! 
A summer's day he whiles away 

Without fatigue or sorrow, 
And if the fish should baulk his wish, 

He comes again to-morrow. 

In air let pheasants range, 

'Tis to me a glorious sight, 
Which no fire of mine shall change 

Into grovelling blood and night ; 
I am no hound, to pant and bound 

Behind a stag that's flying ; 
Nor can I hook a trout from brook, 

On grass to watch its dying. 

And yet no sportsman keen 

Can sweeter pastime ply, 
Or enjoy the rural scene 

With more ecstacy than I : * 

There's not a view, a form, a hue. 

In earth, or air, or ocean. 
That does not fill my heart, and thrill 

My bosom with emotion. 

clouds that paint the air ! 

fountains, fields, and groves ! 
Lights, sounds, and odours rare. 

Which my yearning spirit loves ! 
While thus I feel, and only steal 

From visions so enchanting, 
In tuneful lays to sing your praise, 

What charm of life is wanting ? 



86 THE QUARREL OF 



THE QUARREL OF FAITH, HOPE, AI-ID CHARITY. 

Once Faith, Hope, and Charity traversed the land, 

In sisterhood's uninterrupted embraces. 
Performing their office of love hand in hand, 

Of the Christian world the appropriate Graces. 

But tiffs since those primitive days have occurred, 
That threaten to sever this friendly relation, 

As may well be surmised when I state, word for word, 
The terms of their latest and worst altercation : 

" Sister Charity, pry thee allow me to state," 
Cries Faith, in a tone of contemptuous sneering, 

"That while you affect to be meek and sedate, 
Your conduct is cunning, your tone domineering. 

" In* the times that are gone, my world-harassing name, 
Received some accession of strength every hour ; 

St. Bartholomew's Massacre hallowed my fame, 
And Sicily's Vespers asserted my power. 

"When martyrs in multitudes rushed at my call, 
To peril their lives for Theology's sake, 

Mine too was the voice that cried, ' Sacrifice all. 
With jail and with gibbet, with faggot and stake.' 

" When the banner of orthodox slaughter was furled, 
And subjects no more from each other dissented, 

I set them at war Avith the rest of the world, 
And for centuries national struggles fomented. 



PAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY. 87 

" What are all the great heroes on history's page, 
But puppets who figured as I pulled the strmgs? 

Crusades I engendered in every age, 

And Faith was the leader of armies and kings. 

" In those days of my glory Hope followed my track, 

In warfare a firm and impartial ally, 
For she constantly patted both sides on the back, 

And promised them both a reward in the sky." 

Here Charity, heaving disconsolate sighs. 
That said " I admit what I deeply deplore," 

Uplifted to heaven her tear-suifused eyes, 

Which seemed but to anger her sister the more. 

" Nay, none of your cant, hypocritical minx !" 

She cried in a louder and bitterer tone, 
'" If you feel any fancy to Avhimper, methinks 

You might weep that the days of my glory are gone. 

"What wreck of my palmy puissance is left? 

What bravos and bullies my greatness declare? 
Of the holy and dear Inquisition bereft. 

All my fierce fulminations are impotent air. 

" No racks and no pincers — no limbs piecemeal torn, 
No screams of the tortured my prowess display ; 

And to crown all these slights, I am shamefully shorn 
Of my own proper triumph, an auto da fe. 

" The Pope, who could once, in my terrible name. 
Spread warfare and havoc all Christendom round. 

Is sunk to such pitiful dotage and shame, 

That the Vatican thunder 's a ridiculed sound. 



Oa THE QUARREL OP 

" Nay, even in England, mj latest strong-hold, 
And the firmest support of mj paramount sway, 

(In Gath or in Askelon be it not told,) 

All my orthodox bulwarks are crumbling away. 

" Dissenters, untested, may now, nothing loth, 
As municipal officers feast and carouse; 

And emancipate Catholics, taking the oath, 
O horror of horrors ! may sit in the House. 

" If Erin no longer my altar-flame fanned. 
By ceasing to murder for tithe now and then, 

It might well be surmised that my paralysed hand 
Had lost all control o'er the actions of men. 

" And what though each orthodox candidate swears 
To my thirty-nine Articles — 'tis but a jest. 

Since a bishop (pro/i pudor !) , a bishop, declares 
That such oaths are a form — never meant as a test. 

" And who is the cause that I'm laid on the shelf, 
Disowned and deserted by all but a few ? 

My downfall and ruin I trace to yourself, 
To you, I repeat, sister Charity — you! 

" Your looks and your whining expressions of ruth. 
Your appeals — ever urged with insidious wiles. 

To reason and justice — to love and to truth. 
Your tears of deceit, and your plausible smiles, 

"Have inveigled the bulk of my subjects away. 

And have swelled your own ranks with deserters 
from mine : 

Buch conduct is base, and from this very day, 
"Hope and I mean to leave you and take a new line." 



FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY, 89 

With the look of an angel, the voice of a dove, 
Thus Charity answered — " Since Concord alone, 

Can prosper our partnership mission of love, 
And exalt the attraction that calls her her own, 

"I would not, dear sisters, even harbour a thought. 
That might peril a friendship so truly divine ; 

And if in our feelings a change has been wrought, 
I humbly submit that the feult is not mine. 

" Christianity's attributes, holy and high. 

When first, sister Faith, you delighted to teach. 

And Hope only wafted your words to the sky, 
I seconded gladly the labours of each : 

"But when, in crusades! you began to afiect 
A thousand disguises and masquerades new, 

When you dressed yourself up in the badges of sect, 
Nay, even of Mussulman, Pagan, and Jew, 

" And when in each garb, as yourself have just said, 
You scattered a fii-ebrand wherever you went, 

While Hope spent her breath as she followed or led, 
In fanning the flames of religious dissent, 

"I raised up my voice in a solemn appeal 

Against your whole course of unchristian life, 

Tho' its accents were drowned in the clashing of steel, 
In the clamour of councils, and schismatic strife ; 

" But now when men, turning from dogmas to deeds, 
Bear the scriptural dictum of Jesus in mind, 

That salvation depends not on canons and creeds. 
But on love of the Lord, and the love of our kind, 



90 WINTEB, 

" My voice can be heard and mj arguments weighed: 
Which explains why such numerous converts of late 

Are under my love-breathing standard arrayed, 
Who once, beneath yours, were excited to hate. 

" Superstition must throw off Religion's disguise ; 

For men, now enlightened, not darkling like owls, 
While they reverence priests who are holy and wise, 

Will no longer be hoodwinked by cassocks or cowls. 

"If, Sisters ! forgetting your primitive troth, 

You would still part the world into tyrants and slaves, 

What wonder that sages should look on you both 
As the virtues of dupes, for the profit of knaves ? 

" You would separate? Do so — I give you full scope ; 

But reflect, you are both of you naught when we part ; 
While I, 'tis well known, can supply Faith and Hope, 

When I choose for my temple an innocent heart." 



WINTER. 



The mill-wheel 's frozen in the stream, 

The church is decked with holly, 
Misletoe hangs from the kitchen beam. 

To fright away melancholy ; 
Icicles clink in the milkmaid's pail, 

Younkers skate on the pool below, 
Blackbirds perch on the garden rail. 

And hark^ how the cold winds blow ! 



THE CHOLERA MORBUS. 91 

There goes the squire to shoot at snipe, 

Here runs Dick to fetch a log ; 
You'd swear his breath was the smoke of a pipe 

In the frosty morning fog. 
Hodge is breaking the ice for the kine, 

Old and young cough as they go, 
The round red sun forgets to shine, 

And hark, how the cold winds blow ! 



THE CHOLERA MORBUS. 

[on heaeinq it said that this disease only attacked the P0OE.3 

It comes ! it comes ! from Eno;land's tremblins; tongue 
One low and universal murmur stealeth : — 

By dawn of day, each journal is o'erhung 
With startling eyes, to read what it revealeth, 

And all aghast, ejaculate one word — 

The Cholera — no other sound is heard ! 

Had Death upon his ghastly horse revealed. 

From his throat-rattling trump a summons sounded, 

Not more appallingly its blast had pealed 

Upon the nation's ear ; — awe-struck, astounded, 

Men strive in vain their secret fears to smother, 

And gaze in blank dismay on one another. 

Now are all cares absorbed in that of health ; 

Hushed is the song, the dance, the voice of gladness, 
While thousands in the selfishness of wealth. 

With looks of confidence, but hearts of sadnessi, 
Dream they can purchase safety for their lives 
By nostrums, drugs, and quack preventitives. 



92 THE CHOLERA MORBUS. 

The wretch who might have died in squalid want, 
Unseen, unmourned by our hard-hearted blindness, 

Wringing from fear what pitj would not grant, 
Becomes the sudden object of our kindness, 

Now that his betters he may implicate, 

And spread infection to the rich and great. 

Yet still will wealth presumptuously cry, 

" What though the hand of death be thus outstretched? 
It will not reach the lordly and the high. 

But only strike the lowly and the wretched. 
Tush ! what have ive to quail at ? Let us fold 
Our arms, and trust to luxury and gold." 

They do belie thee, honest Pestilence ! 

Thou 'rt brave, magnanimous, not mean and dastard 
Thou 'It not assert thy dread omnipotence 

In mastering those already overmastered 
By want and woe — trampling the trampled crowd, 
To spare the unsparing, and preserve the proud. 

Usurpers of the people's rights ! prepare 

For death by quick atonement. — Stony-hearted 

Oppressors of the poor ! — in time beware ! 
When the destroying angel's shaft is darted, 

'Twill smite the star on titled bosoms set. 

The mitre pierce, transfix the coronet. 

Take moral physic. Pomp ! not drugs and oil, 
And learn, to broad philanthropy a stranger, 

That every son of poverty and toil. 

With whom thou sharest now an equal danger, 

Should as a brother share, in happier hours, 

The blessings which our common Father showers. 



THE RECANTATIOIf. 93 

thou reforming Cholera ! thou'rt sent 
Not as a scourge alone, but as a teacher — 

That they who shall survive to mark the event 

Of thy dread summons thou death-dealing preacher ! 

By piety and love of kind may best 

Requite the love that snatched them from the Pest. 



THE RECANTATION. 



Young, saucy, shallow in my views, 
The world before me — free to choose 

My calling or profession, 
I canvassed, one by one, the list, 
And thus, a tyro satirist, 

Condemned them in succession : 

The Law ? — its sons cause half our ills, 
By plucking clients in their bills, 

As sparrowhawks do sparrows ; 
Shrinking the mind it whets, their trade 
Acts as the grindstone on the blade. 

Which, while it sharpens, narrows. 

What makes the Pleader twist and tear 
Statutes to wrong the rightful heir, 

And bring the widow sorrow ? 
A fee ! — What makes him change his tack, 
Eat his own words, and swear white's black ?- 

Another fee to-morrow. 

A Curate ? — chained to some dull spot, 
Even at church he mourns his lot, 
Repining with thanksgivmg. 



94 THE RECANTATION. 

'Mid stupid clodpoles and their wives, 
The Scholar 's buried while he lives, 
And dies without a living. 

And what are Bishops ? — hypocrites 
Who preach against the world's delights 

In purple and fine linen ; 
Who brand as crime, in humbler elves, 
All vanities, while they themselves 

Have palaces to sin in. 

A Soldier ? — What ! a bravo paid 
To make man-butchery a trade — 

A Jack-a-dandy varlet, 
Who sells his liberty — perchance 
His very soul's inheritance — 

For feathers, lace, and scarlet ! 

A Sailor? — worse ! — he 's doomed to trace 
With treadmill drudgery the space 

From foremast to the mizzen ; 
A slave to the tyrannic main, 
Till some kind bullet comes to brain 

The brainless in his prison. 

Physic ? — a freak of times and modes, 
Which yearly old mistakes explodes 

For new ones still absurder : 
All slay their victims — disappear. 
And only leave this doctrine clear, 

That " killing is no murder." 

A Poet? — To describe aright 
His lofty hopes and abject plight, 

The quickest tongue would lack words ! 



THE RECANTATION. 95 

Still like a ropemaker, he twines 
From morn to even lines on lines, 
And still keeps going backwards. 



Older and wiser grown, my strain 
Was changed, and thus did I arraign 

My crude and cjnic sallies : 
Railer ! — like most satiric scribes. 
Your world-condemning: diatribes 

Smack less of truth than malice. 

Abuse condemns not use — all good 
Perverted or misunderstood, 

Maj generate all badness, 
Reason itself — that gift divine. 
To folly may be turned by wine, 

By long excess to madness. 

From the professions thus portray'd, 
As prone to stain, corrupt, degrade, 

Have sprung, for many ages. 
All that the world with pride regards. 
Our statesmen, patriots, heroes, bards, 

Philanthropists and sages. 

Not from our callings do we take 
Our characters : — men's actions make 

Or mar their reputations. 
The good, the bad, the false, the true, 
Would still be such, though all their crew 

Should interchange vocations. 



96 DEATH. 

Whate'er the compass-box's hue, 
Substance, or form — the needle's true, 

Alike in calms or surges : 
Even thus the virtuous heart, whate'er 
Its owner's plight or calling — ^ne'er 

From honour's pole diverges. 



DEATH. 

Fate ! fortune ! chance ! whose blindness, 

Hostility or kindness, 
Plays such strange freaks with human destinies, 

Contrasting poor and wealthy, 

The life-diseased and healthy. 
The blessed, the cursed, the witless, and the wise, 

Ye have a master — one 

Who mars what ye have done. 
Levelling all that move beneath the sun — 
Death ! 

Take courage ye that languish 

Beneatli the witherinp; anguish 
Of open wrong, or tyrannous deceit, 

There comes a swift redresser, 

To punish your oppressor, 
And lay him prostrate — helpless at your feet. 

champion strong ! 

Righter of wrong. 
Justice — equality to thee belong — 
Death ! 

Where conquest crowns his quarrel. 
And the victor, wreathed with laurel, 



DEATH. 97 

While trembling nations bow beneath his rod, 

On his guarded throne reposes, 

In living apotheosis, 
The Lord's anointed, and earth's demigod, 

What form of fear 

Croaks in his ear, 
" The victor's car is but a funeral bier." — 
Death ! 

Who — spite of guards and yeomen, 

Steel phalanx and cross-bowmen, 
Leaps at a bound the shuddering castle's moat, 

The tyrant's crown down dashes, 

His brandished sceptre smashes, 
With rattling fingers grasps him by the throat. 

His breath out-wrings. 

And his corpse down flings 
Tq the dark pit where grave- worms feed on kings ? — 
Death ! 

When the murderer 's undetected, 

When the robber 's unsuspected, 
And night has veiled his crime from every eye ; 

When nothing living daunts him, 

And no fear of justice haunts him. 
Who wakes his conscience-stricken agony ? 

Who makes him start 

With his withering dart. 
And wrings the secret from his bursting heart ? 
Death ! 

To those who pine in sorrow, 
Whose wretchedness can borrow 
No moment's ease from any human act. 
To the widow comfort-spurning, 
To the slave for freedom yearning, 
5 



98 THE POET AMONG THE TREES. 

To the diseased with cureless anguish rack'd, 

Who brings release 

And whispers peace, 
And points to realms where pain and sorrow cease ?- 
Death ! 



THE POET AMONG THE TREES. 

Oak is the noblest tree that grows, 
Its leaves are freedom 's type and herald, 

If we maj put our fiith in those 
Of Literary-Fund Fitzgerald. 

Willow's a sentimental wood, 

And many sonneteers, to quicken 'em, 

A relic keep of that Avhich stood 

Before Pope's Tusculum at Twickenham. 

The Birch-tree, with its pendent curves, 

Exciting many a sad reflection, 
Not only present praise deserves, 

But our posterior recollection. 

The Banyan, though unknown to us, 

Is sacred to the Eastern Magi ; 
Some like the taste of Tityrus, 

"Recubans sub tegmine fao;i.'' 

Some like the Juniper — in gin ; 

Some fancy that its berries droop, as 
Knowing a poison lurks within, 

More rank than that distilled from th' Upas. 



THE POET AMONG THE TREES. 99 

But he who wants a useful word, 

To tag a line or point a moral, 
Will find there 's none to be preferred 

To that inspiring tree — the Laurel. 

The hero-butchers of the sword, 

In Rome and Greece, and many a far land, 
Like Bravos, murdered for reward, 

The settled price — a laurel-garland. 

On bust or coin we mark the wreath, 

Forgetful of its bloody story, 
How many myriads writhed in death. 

That one might bear this type of glory, 

Caesar first wore the badge, 'tis said, 

'Cause his bald sconce had nothing on it, 

Knocking some millions on the head, 
To get his own a leafy bonnet. 

Luckily for the Laurel's name. 

Profaned to purposes so frightful, 
'Twas worn by nobler heirs of fame. 

All innocent, and some delightful. 

With its green leaves were victors crowned 

In the Olympic games for running. 
Who wrestled best, or galloped round 

The Circus with most speed and cunning. 

Apollo, crowned with Bays, gives laws 

To the Parnassian Empyrean ; 
And every schoolboy knows the cause, 

Who ever dipped in Tooke's Pantheon. 



100 THE POET AMONG THE TKEES. 

Daphne, like many another fair, 
To whom connubial ties are horrid. 

Fled from his arms, but left a rare 
Memento sprouting on his forehead. 

For Bays did ancient bards compete, 
Gathered on Pindus or Parnassus, 

They by the leaf were paid, not sheet, 
And that 's the reason they surpass us. 

One wreath thus twines the heads about, 

Whose brains have brightened all our sconces, 

And those who others' brains knocked out, 
'Cause they themselves were royal dunces. 

Men fight in these degenerate days, 
For crowns of gold, not laurel fillets ; 

And bards who borrow fire from bays. 
Must have them in the grate for billets. 

Laureats we have (for cash and sack) 

Of all calibres and diameters, 
But 'stead of poetry, alack ! 

They give us lachrymose Hexameters. 

And that illustrious leaf for which 

Folks wrote and wrestled, sang and bluster 'd, 
Is now boiled down to give a rich 

And dainty flavour to our custard ! 



TO THE LADIES OF ENGLAND. 101 



TO THE LADIES OF ENGLAND. 



Beauties ! — (for, dressed with so much taste. 
All may with such a term be graced,) — 

Attend the friendly stanza, 
Which deprecates the threatened change 
Of English modes for fashions strange. 

And French extravaganza. 

What! when her sons renown have won 
In arts and arms, and proudly shone 

A pattern to the nations, 
Shall England 's recreant daughters kneel 
At Gallic shrines, and stop to steal 

Fantastic innovations? 

Domestic — simple — chaste — sedate — 
Your fashions now assimilate 

Your virtues and your duties : — 
With all the dignity of Rome, 
The Grecian Graces find a home 

In England's classic Beauties. 

When we behold so fit a shrine. 
We deem its inmate all divine. 

And thoughts licentious bridle ; 
But if the case be tasteless, rude, 
Grotesque, and glaring — we conclude 

It holds some worthless idol. 

Let Gallia's nymphs of ardent mind, 
To every wild extreme inclined. 
In folly be consistent; 



102 NIGHT-SONG. 

Their failings let their modes express, 
From simpleuess of soul and dress, 
For ever equi-distant. 

True to your staid and even port, 
Let mad extremes of every sort 

With steady scorn be treated; 
Nor by art's modish follies mar 
The sweetest, loveliest work by far 

That nature has completed : — 

For oh ! if in the world's wide round 
One peerless object may be found, 

A something more than human ; 
The faultless paragon confessed 
May in one line be all expressed — 

A WELL-DRESSED ENGLISH WOMAN. 



NIGHT-SONG. 



WBITTEN AT SEA. 



'Tis night — my Bark is on the Ocean, 

No sound I hear, no sight I see, 
Not even the darkened waves whose motion 

Still bears me, Fanny, far from thee ! 
But from the misty skies are gleaming 

Two smiling stars that look, my love ! 
As if thine eyes, though veiled, were beaming 

Benignly on me from above. 

Good night and bless thee, Fanny dearest ! 

Nor let the sound disturb thy sleep. 
If, when the midnight wind thou hearest. 

Thy thoughts are on the distant deep : — 



THE SONG-VISION. 103 

Thy Lover there is safe and fearless, 

For Heaven still guards and guides my track; 

Nor can my dreaming heart be cheerless, 
For still to thee 'tis wafted back. 



'Tis sweet on the benighted billo-w, 

To trust in Him whom all adore ; 
'Tis sweet to think that from her pillow 

Her prayers for me shall Fanny pour. 
The winds, self-lullabied, are dozing, 

The winking stars withdraw their light. 
Fanny ! methinks thine eyes are closing — 

Bless thee, my love ! good night, good night ! 



THE SONG-VISION. 



Oh, warble not that fearful air ! 

For sweet and sprightly though it be, 
It wakes in me a deep despair 

By its unhallowed gaiety. 

It was the last my Fanny sung, 
The last enchanting playful strain, 

That breathed from that melodious tongue. 
Which none shall ever hear again. 

From Memory's fount what pleasures past 
At that one vocal summons flow ; 

Bliss which I vainly thought would last — 
Bliss which but deepens present woe ! 



104 THE SONG-VISION, 

Where art thou, Fannj ! can the tomb 

Have chilled that heart so fond and warm- 
Have turned to dust that cheek of bloom — 
Those eyes of light — that angel form? 

Ah no ! the grave resigns its prey : 
See, see ! my Fanny 's sitting there ; 

While on the harp her fingers play 
A prelude to my favourite air. 

There is the smile which ever blessed 
The gaze of mine enamoured eye — 

The lips that I so oft have pressed 
In tribute for that melody. 

She moves them now to sins; ! — hark, hark 1 
But ah ! no voice delights mine ears : 

And now she fixdes in shadows dark ; — 
Or am I blinded by my tears ? 

Stay yet awhile, my Fanny, stay. 

Nor from these outstretched arms depart ;- 

'Tis gone ! the vision's snatched away ! 
I feel it by my breaking heart. 

Lady, forgive this burst of pain, 
That seeks a sad and short relief, 

In coining from a 'wildered brain 
A solace for impassioned grief. 

But sing no more that fearful air, 
For sweet and sprightly though it be, 

It wakes in me a deep despair, 
By its unhallowed gaiety. 



THE poet's song TO HIS WIFE. 105 



THE POET'S WINTER SONG TO HIS WIFE. 

The birds that sang so sweet in the summer skies are 

fled, 
And we trample 'neath our feet leaves that fluttered o'er 

our head ; 
The verdant fields of June wear a winding-sheet of white, 
The stream has lost its tune, and the glancuig waves 

their light. 

We too, my faithful wife, feel our winter coming on, 
And our dreams of early life like the summer birds are 

gone; 
My head is silvered o'er, while thine eyes their fire have 

lost, 
And thy voice, so sweet of yore, is enchained by age's 

frost. 

But the founts that live and shoot through the bosom of 
the earth, 

Still prepare each seed and root to give future flowers 
their birth ; 

And we, my dearest Jane, spite of age's wintry blight, 

In our bosoms will retain Spring's florescence and de- 
light. 

The seeds of love and lore that we planted in our youth. 
Shall develop more and more their attractiveness and 

truth ; 
The springs beneath shall run, though the snows be on 

our head, 
For Love's declining sun shall with Friendship's rays be 

fed. 

5* 



106 SONGS TO FANNY. 

Thus as happy as when young shall we both grow old, 

my wife, 
On one bouo;h united huno; of the fruitful Tree of Life ; 
May we never disengage through each change of wind 

and weather, 
Till in ripeness of old age we both drop to earth together ! 



SONG TO FANNY. 

Nature ! thy fair and smiling face 
Has now a double power to bless, 

For 'tis the glass in which I trace 
My absent Fanny's loveliness. 

Her heavenly eyes above me shine. 
The rose reflects her modest blush, 

She breathes in every eglantine, 
She sings in every warbling thrush. 

That her dear form alone I see 
Need not excite surprise in any. 

For Fanny 's all the world to me, 
And all the world to me is Fanny. 



SONG TO FANNY. 



Thy bloom is soft, thine eyes are bright, 
And rose-buds are thy lips, my Fanny, 

Thy glossy hair is rich with light, 
Thy form unparagoned by any ; 



THE BIRTHDAY OF SPRING. 107 

But thine is not the brief array 

Of charms which time is sure to borrow, 

Which accident may blight to-day, 
Or sickness undermine to-morrow. 



No — thine is that immortal grace 

Which ne'er shall pass from thy possession, 
That moral beauty of the face 

Which constitutes its sweet expression ; 
This shall preserve thee what thou art, 

When age thy blooming tints has shaded, 
For while thy looks reflect thy heart, 

How can their charms be ever faded? 

Nor, Fanny, can a love like mine 

With time decay, in sickness falter; 
'Tis hke thy beauty — half divine. 

Born of the soul, and cannot alter : 
For when the body's mortal doom 

Our earthly pilgrimage shall sever, 
Our spirits shall their loves resume, 

United in the skies for ever. 



THE BIRTHDAY OF SPRING. 

Cry Holiday ! Holiday ! let us be gay, 

And share in the rapture of heaven and earth ; 

For see ! what a sunshiny joy they display. 

To welcome the Spring on the day of her birth ; 

While the elements, gladly outpouring their voice. 

Nature's Paean proclaim, and in chorus rejoice ! 



108 THE BIRTHDAY OF SPRING. 

Loud carols each rill as it leaps in its bed ; 

The wind brings us music and balm from the south, 
And Earth in delight calls on Echo to spread 

The tidings of joj with her manj-tongued mouth ; 
O'er sea, and o'er shore, over mountain and plain, 
Far, far does she trumpet the jubilee strain. 

Hark ! hark to the cuckoo ! its magical call 
Awakens the flowerets that slept in the dells ; 

The snow-drop, the primrose, the hyacinth, all 
Attune at this summons their silvery bells. 

Hush ! ting-a-ring-ting ! don't you hear how they sing I 

They are pealing a fau-y-like welcome to Spring. 

The love-thrilling hedge-birds are wild with delight; 

Like arrows loud whistling the swallows flit by ; 
The rapturous lark, as he soars out of sight. 

Sends us sun-lighted melody down from the sky. 
In the air that they quaff", all the feathery throng 
Taste the spirit of Spring that out-bursts in a song. 

To me do the same vernal whisperings breathe 
In all that I scent, that I hear, that I meet, 

Without and within me, above and beneath. 
Every sense is imbued with a prophecy sweet, 

Of the pomp and the pleasantness Earth shall assume 

When adorned, like a bride, in her flowery bloom. 

In this transport of nature each feeling takes part ; 

I am thrilling with gratitude, reverence, joy ; 
A new spring of youth seems to gush from my heart, 

And the man 's metamorphosed again to a boy, 
Oh ! let me run wild, as in earlier years ; 
If my joy be suppressed, I shall burst into tears. 



AN OLD man's aspiration. 109 



AN OLD IVIAN'S ASPIRATION. 

GLORIOUS Sun ! whose car sublime 

Unerring since the birth of time, 
In glad magnificence hath run its race ; 

day's delight — God-painted sky, 

moon and stars, whose galaxy 
Illuminates the night thro' all the realms of space. 

poetry of forms and hues. 
Resplendent Earth ! whose varied views 

In such harmonious beauty are combined ; — 

And thou, palpitating Sea, 

Who boldest this fair mystery 
In the wide circle of thy thrilluig arms enshrined — 

Hear me, hear while I impart 

The deep conviction of my heart, 
That such a theatre august and grand, 

Whose author, actors, awful play. 

Are God, mankind, a judgment day, 
Was for some higher aim, some holier purpose plann'd 

1 will not, nay I cannot, deem 
This fair creation's moral scheme, 

That seems so crude, mysterious, misapplied, 

Meant to conclude as it began. 

Unworthy the material plan 
With whose perfections rare its failures are allied. 

As in our individual fate. 
Our manhood and maturer date. 
Correct the faults and follies of our youth, 



110 GIPSIES. 

So will the world, I fondlj hope, 
With added years give fuller scope 
To the display and love of -wisdoni, justice, truth. 

'Tis this that makes my feelings glow, 
My bosom thrill, my tears overflow, 

At any deed magnanimous — sublime ; 
'Tis this that re-assures my soul, 
When nations shun the forward goal. 

And retrograde awhile in ignorance and crime. 

Mine is no hopeless dream of some 

Impeccable Millennium, 
When saints and angels shall inhabit earth ; 

But a conviction deep, intense, 

That man was meant by Providence 
Progressively to reach a higher moral worth. 

On this dear faith' s sustaining truth 
Hath my soul brooded from its youth. 

As heaven's best gift, and earth's most cheering dower. 
! may I still in life's decline, 
Hold unimpaired this creed benign, 

And mine old age attest its meliorating power ! 



GIPSIES. 

Whether from India's burning plains, 
Or wild Bohemia's domains. 

Your steps were first directed; 
Or whether ye be Egypt's sons. 
Whose stream, like Nile's, for ever runs 

With sources undetected ; 



GIPSIES. Ill 

Arabs of Europe ! Gips j race ! 
Your Eastern manners, garb, and face, 

Appear a strange chimaera ; 
None, none but jou can now be styled 
Romantic, picturesque, and wild, 

In this prosaic sera. 

Ye sole freebooters of the wood, 
Since Adam Bell and Robin Hood : 

Kept everywhere asunder 
From other tribes — King, Church, and State 
Spurning, and only dedicate 

To freedom, sloth, and plunder ; 

Your forest-camp — the forms one sees 
Banditti-like amid the trees. 

The ragged donkeys grazing, 
The Sybil's eye prophetic, bright 
With flashes of the fitful light 

Beneath the caldron blazing, — 

O'er my young mind strange terrors threw : 
Thy History gave me, Moore Carew ! 

A more exalted notion 
Of Gipsy life ; nor can I yet 
Gaze on your tents, and quite forget 

My former deep emotion. 

For " auld lang syne" I'll not maltreat 
Yon pseudo-tinker, though the cheat. 

As sly as thievish Reynard, 
Instead of mending kettles, prowls, 
To make foul havoc of my fowls. 

And decimate my hen-yard. 



112 LIFE. 

Come thou, too, black-eyed lass, and try 
That potent skill in palmistry, 

AVhicli sixpences can wheedle; 
Mine is a friendly cottage — here 
No snarling mastiff need you fear, 

No Constable or Beadle. 

'Tis yours, I know, to draw at will 
Upon futurity a bill. 

And Plutus to importune : — 
Discount the bill — take half yourself, 
Give me the balance of the pelf. 

And both may laugh at fortune. 



LIFE. 

There are who think this scene of life 
A frightful gladiatorial strife, 

A struggle for existence. 
Where class contends with class, and each 
Must plunder all within his reach, 

To earn his own subsistence. 

Shocked at the internecine air 
Of this Arena, they forsAvear 

Its passions and its quarrels ; 
They will not sacrifice, to live, 
All that to life its charms can give, 

Nor sell for bread their morals 

Enthusiasts ! check your reveries, 
Ye cannot always pluck at ease 

From Pleasure's cornucopia; 



TO A LADY. 113 



Ye cannot alter Nature's plan, 
Change to a perfect being Man, 
Nor England to Utopia. 

Plunge in the busy current — stem 
The tide of errors ye condemn, 
And fill life's active uses ; 
Begin reform yourselves, and live 
To prove that Honesty may thrive 
Unaided by abuses. 



TO A LADY. 

[ON GIVING THE WKITEK A LITTLE BEONZE CUPID FBOM POMPEII.] 

Thanks for thy little God of Love, 
Dug from Pompeii — whose fate 'tis 

Henceforth to be installed above 
My household Lares and Penates. 

Oh ! could its lips of bronze unclose, 
How sad a tale might they recall ! 

How thrill us with the appalHng woes 
Of the doomed City's burial! 

Perchance, on that benighted day 
This tiny imp the table graced 

Of one whose mansion might display 
The choicest stores of classic taste. 

Of some one whose convivial board 
With all embellishments was deck'd, 

While her rich cabinets outpoured 
A constant feast of Intellect. 



114 TO A LADY, 

Of one who, tho' she ne'er declined 
In social chat to bear a part', 

Loved more to fill her house and mind 
With lettered lore, and varied art. 

Of one who thus could give delight 
To guests of every mental hue, 

Whether unlearned or erudite — 
Of one, in short, resembling You ! 

To the dark tomb, thou Pagan Sprite ! 

For many centuries consigned. 
Thrice welcome to this world of light, 

Where worshippers thou still wilt find. 

Methinks thy new abode is one 
Thou wilt not, Cupid ! disapprove, 

For all my married life has run 

A lengthened course of constant love. 

Prompt me, thou type of higher hope ! 

To spread that love from me and mine, 
Until, in its ascending scope. 

It soar to social and divine. 

So, little Elf! shalt thou be eyed 
With doubled favour by thine owner, 

Both as a tutelary guide. 

And a memorial of thy donor. 



THE CHARMS OF LIFE. 115 



THE CHARMS OF LIFE. 

What hath life to charm us ? Flowers 

Whose sweet lips have ever sung 
Carols from the fields and bowers, 

In perfume's universal tongue. 
Choral fairies bright and merry ! 

Hark ! I hear your silver bells, 

Chiming from the tufted dells 
A May-day welcome — hey down derry ! 

Hark again ! those jocund calls 

Are Echo's voice, who loves to mock 

The laughter of the waterfalls 

That leap for joy from rock to rock. 

And now the winds their organ ply. 
Tuned to the music of the birds. 
And rustling leaves and lowing herds, 

! what a thrilling harmony ! 

Joys there are of wider scope, — 

Our social and domestic ties, 
Faith, love, charity, and hope, 

With all their mingled ecstacies. 
And mental bliss that never cloys. 

But charms the head and thrills the heart ; 

Life ! how grand a boon thou art ! 
Life ! how sumless are thy joys ! 



116 A HINT TO CYNICS. — MUSIC. 



A HINT TO CYNICS. 

Youth, beauty, love, delight, 

All blessings bright and dear, 

Like shooting stars by night. 
Flash, fall, and disappear. 

Let Cynics doubt their worth, 

Because they 're born to die, 

The vriser sons of earth 

Will snatch them ere they fly. 

The' mingled with alloy, 

We throw not gold away ; 

Then why reject the joy 

That 's blended with decay ? 



MUSIC. 

Peace to the tenants of the tomb 

Whom oft we met in hall and bower, 
Peace to the buried friends with whom 

We shared the charm of Music's hour ; 
Tho' dead, they are not mute, for still 

Does memory wake some favoured strain 
That makes our yearning bosoms thrill 

As if they lived and sang again. 

Health to the friends we still possess ; 

! long and often may we meet, 
Our yet remaining years to bless 

With Music's pleasures pure and sweet; 



THE bard's inscription. 117 

And praises to the power divine 

That gave to man the precious boon, 

Which make's life's social evening shine 
As brightly as its morn and noon. 



THE BARD'S INSCRIPTION IN HIS DAUGHTER'S 
ALBUM. 

The thoughtful reader here may see 
A little world's epitome 

In turning each successive folio; — 
Names, drawings, music, poems, prose, 
From kindred and from friends compose 

This Album's multifarious olio. 

Its owner, from her circle wide 

Of friends, may here survey with pride 

A cherished tributary Cento ; 
And when they 're absent — altered — dead — 
Each contribution will be read 

With double zest as a memento. 

Here with a smile will she recall 
The walk, the concert, or the ball, 

Shared Avith the young and merry-hearted ; — 
And here, perchance, while brooding o'er 
The song of one who sings no more, 

A tear may drop for the departed. 

Yet — daughter dear ! my heart foretells 
That thou< wilt quit all other spells. 

Of friends, however loved — and rather 
Hang o'er the page that thus records, 
With feelings ill-expressed by words, 

The fervent blessing of a Father ! 



118 ANTI-CORN-LAW BAZAAR STANZAS. 



STANZAS 

WBl 'i' l ' lty FOB TnE BAZAAB OP THE NATIONAL ANTI-COBN LAW LKAGtTE, COVEITT 
GABDEN TUEATEE, 1S45. 

Why with its ring has the connecting sea 

Married the Hemispheres and joined their hands, 

Why has the Magnet's guiding ministry 

]\Iade paths athwart the deep to distant lands ? 

Why are the winds to our control resigned ? 

Why does resistless steam our will obey, 
Why are all arts, all elements, combined 

To speed us o'er the ocean-world's highway ? 

That from wide earth, and from the watery waste. 
Creation's sacred flag may be unfurled, 

Whereon the finger of the Lord hath traced 

Creation's law — " Free trade with all the 
World !" 

Thus nature — her maternal hands untied, 

Shall scatter fresh supplies of wealth and food, 

And from each varied soil and clime provide 

Some separate blessing for the common good. 

So shall the severed races of mankind. 

Bidding all barriers and restrictions cease, 

By constant intercourse become combined 
In one vast family of love and peace. 

Let no man part whom God would thus unite ! 

They who would speed this high and holy aim, 
Leagued in the cause of universal right, 

All factious ends, all party views disclaim. 



A HINT TO THE FARMERS. 119 

'Their weapons, Faith, and Charity, and Hope, 

Justice and Trutii the champions of their cause, 

Firmly but peaceably they seek to cope 

With selfish interests and mistaken laws. 

Ye who love man's advancement — peace — free trade, 
Ye who would blessings win from every land, 

Oh ! give the liberating League your aid, 

And speed its course with zealous heart and hand ! 



A HINT TO THE FARMERS. 

Farmers, whose income, day by day, 
Slides on the Sliding Scale away. 

Whatever its direction ; 
When favoured most still most forlorn, 
Starved by monopoly of Corn, 

And ruined by protection ; — 

Farmers ! who dying, seldom see 
One penny left for Charon's fee. 

When o'er the Styx ye're ferried, 
But in your landlord's pocket trace 
(Like Mecca to the Turks) the place 

Wherein your jtrojit 's buried — 

Farmers ! who find in Cobden's breath. 
And Bright' s harangues, a menaced death 

For all of yeoman station. 
And most appropriately brand 
The Corn-law Leaguers as a band 

Prone to ass — ass — ination : — 



120 A HINT TO THE FARMERS. 

When landlords cry, " We must be fed, 
Go — grind your bones to make our bread, 

From Earth more harvests ravish ; 
Study Liebig, ye clodpole elves ! 
Buy Guano — Soda — stint yourselves, 

That we may still be lavish :" — 

Farmers ! ye ought to patronise 
Whate'er improvements may arise 

To lessen your expenses, 
So hear my tale — there's little in 't, 
'Tis merely meant to give a hint 

For making cheap field fences. 

Queen Bess — I mean Elizabeth, 
Favoured, as the historian saith. 

The handsome Earl of Leicester, 
To whom she made large grants of land, 
For which he doubtless kissed her hand, 

And duly thanked and blessed her. 

These lands were commons, on whose turf, 
Many a cottager and serf 

Had fed his goose or donkey ; 
And being dispossessed, the crowd 
Began to murmur in a loud, 

I need n't add a wrong key. 

What cared his lordship ! down he came, 
With carpenters to fence the same, 

And shut out clowns and cattle ; 
Riding each morn the men to watch. 
So that no moment they might snatch 

For drink or tittle-tattle. 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 121 

One da J, a peasant by his side 

Bowed his gray head and humbly cried, 

" I ax your lorship's pardon. 
I've got a notion in my nob, 
Whereby this here expensive job 

Need hardly cost a farden." 

" Not cost a farthino;, doting clown !" 
Exclaimed his lordship with a frown. 

Half angry and half comic ; — 
" Braggart most vain and over free, 
Think'st thou that I can learn from thee 

A plan more economic ?' ' 

"Yes," quoth the rustic — "yes, my lord. 
You need n't buy another board. 

Or oaken plank or paling, 
Think not my words are brags and boasts, 
Tor if your lordship finds the posts. 

The public will find railing P'' 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Joy ! joy ! my lover's bark returns, 

I know her by her bearing brave : 
How gallantly the foam she spurns. 

And bounds in triumph o'er the wave ! 

Why dost thou veil the glorious sight. 

In lurid rain, thou summer cloud ? 
See ! see ! the lightning flashes bright ! 

Hark ! to the thunder long and loud ! 

The storm is past — the skies are fair, 

But where' s the bark? — there was but one : — 

Ha ! she is yonder, shattered — bare — 

She reels — she — sinks — Heaven ! she's gone ! 
6 



122 THE DYING POET'S FAREWELL. 



THE DYING POET'S FAREWELL. 

Animula vagula, blandula, 
Hospes comesque corporis 
Quse nunc abibis in loca ? 

Adrian. 

THOU wondrous arch of azure, 
Sun, and starry plains immense! 

Glories that astound the gazer, 
Bj their dread magnificence ! 

thou ocean, whose commotion 

Awes the proudest to devotion ! 

Must I — must I from ye fly, 

Bid ye all adieu — and die ? 

ye keen and gusty mountains, 
On whose top I braved the sky ! 

ye music-pouring fountains, 
On whose marge I loved to lie ! 

ye posies — lilies, roses. 

All the charms that earth discloses ! 

Must I— must I from ye fly, 

Bid ye all adieu — and die ? 

ye birds whose matin chorus 
Taught me to rejoice and bless ! 

And ye herds, Avhose voice sonorous 
Swelled the hymn of thankfulness I 

Learned leisure, and the pleasure 

Of the Muse, my dearest treasure ; 

Must I — must I from ye fly, 

Bid ye all adieu — and die ? 

domestic ties endearing. 

Which still chain my soul to earth ! 



THE DYING POET'S FAREWELL. 123 

ye friends whose converse cheering, 
Winged the hours with social mirth ! 
Songs of gladness, chasing sadness, 
Wine's delight, without its madness; 
Must I, must I from je fly, 
Bid ye all adieu — and die ? 

Yes — I now fulfil the fiction 

Of the swan that sings in death ; — 

Earth, receive my benediction, 
Air, inhale my parting breath ; 

Hills and valleys, forest alleys, 

Prompters of my muse's sallies, 

Fields of green and skies of blue, 

Take, ! take my last adieu. 

Yet perhaps when all is ended, 
And the grave dissolves my frame, 

The elements from which 'twas blended 
May their several parts reclaim ; 

Waters flowing, breezes blowing, 

Earth, and all upon it growing. 

Still may have my altered essence, 

Ever floating in theu' presence ; 

While my disembodied spirit 

May to fields Elysian soar, 
And some lowest seat inherit 

Near the mighty bards of yore; 
Never, never to dissever, 
But to dwell in bliss for ever, 
Tuning an enthusiast lyre 
To that high and laurelled quire. 



SONNETS. 



Eternal and Omnipotent Unseen ! 

Who badest the world, with all its lives complete, 

Start from the void and thrill beneath thj feet, 
Thee I adore with reverence serene ; 

Here, in the fields, thine own cathedral meet, 
Built hj thyself, star- roofed, and hung with green, 

Wherein all breathing things in concord sweet, 

Organed by winds, perpetual hymns repeat : 
Here hast thou spread that book to every eye. 

Whose tongue and truth all, all may read and prove, 
On whose three blessed leaves — Earth, Ocean, Sky, 

Thine own right hand hath stamped might, justice, 
love; 
Grand Trinity, which binds in due degree, 
God, man, and brute, in social unity. 



MORNING. 

Beautiful Earth ! how can I refrain 

From falling down to worship thee ? Behold, 
Over the misty mountains springs amain 

The glorious Sun ; his flaming locks unfold 
Their gorgeous clusters, pouring o'er the plain 

Torrents of light. Hark ! Chanticleer has tolled 
His matin bell, and the lark's choral train 

Warble on high hosannas uncontrolled. 



SONNETS. 125 

All nature worships thee, thou new-born day ! 
Blade, flower, and leaf, their dewy ofierings pay 

Upon the shrine of incense-breathing earth ; 
Birds, flocks, and insects, chaunt their morning lay ; 

Let me, too, join in the thanksgiving mirth. 
And praise, through thee, the God that gave thee birth. 



TO THE SETTING SUN. 

Thou central Eye of God, whose lidless ball 

Is vision all around, dispensing heat. 
And light and life, and regulating all 

With its pervading glance — how calm and sweet 

Is thine unclouded setting ! Thou dost greet. 
With parting smiles, the earth ; night's shadows fall, 

But long where thou hast sunk shall splendours meet, 
And, lingering there, thy glories past recall. 
Oh I may my heart, like thee, unspotted, clear, 
Be as a sun to all within its sphere ; 

And when beneath the earth I seek my doom. 
May I with smiling calmness disappear. 

And friendship's twilight, hovering o'er my tomb, 

Still bid my memory survive and bloom. 



ON THE STATUE OF A PH'ING FAUN. 

Hark ! hearest thou not the pipe of Faunus, sweeping, 
In dulcet glee, through Thessaly's domain ? 

Dost thou not see embowered wood-nymphs peeping 
To watch the graces that around him reign ; 



126 SONNETS. 

While distant vintagers, and peasants reaping, 

Stand in mute transport, listening to the strain ; 
And Pan himself, beneath a pine-tree sleeping, 

Looks round, and smiles, and drops to sleep again ? 
happy Greece ! while thy blest sons were rovers 
Through all the loveliness this earth discovers, 

They in their minds a brighter region founded, 
Haunted by gods and sylvans, nymphs and lovers, 

Where forms of grace through sunny landscapes 
bounded, 

By music and enchantment all surrounded. 



ON A STUPENDOUS LEG OF GRANITE, 

DI8C0VEEED STANDING BY ITSELF IN THE DE8EET8 OF EGYPT, WITH THE 
INSCRIPTION INSERTED UELOW. 

In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone, 

Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws 
The only shadow that the Desert knows. 

"I am great Ozymandias," saith the stone, 
" The King of kings ; this mighty city shows 

The wonders of my hand." The city 's gone! 
Naught but the leg remaining to disclose 

The site of that forgotten Babylon. 

We wonder, and some hunter may express 

Wonder like ours, when through the wilderness 
Where London stood^ holding the wolf in chase. 

He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess 
What wonderful, but unrecorded, race 
Once dwelt in that annihilated place. 



SONNETS. 127 



ON A GREEN HOUSE. 

Here, from earth's daedal heights and dingles lowly, 

The representatives of Nature meet ; 
Not like a Congress, or Alliance Holy 

Of Kings, to rivet chains, but Avith their sweet 

Blossomy mouths to preach the love complete, 
That with pearled misletoe, and beaded holly. 

Clothed them in green unchangeable, to greet 
Winter with smiles, and banish melancholy. 
I envy not the Emathian madman's fame. 
Who won the world, and built immortal shame 

On tears and blood ; but if some flower, new found, 
In its embalming cup might shroud my name, 

Mine wero a tomb more worthily renowned 

Than Cheops' pile, or Artemisia's mound. 



WRITTEN IN THE PORCH OF BINSTEAD CHURCH, 
ISLE OF WIGHT. 

Farewell, sweet Binstead ! take a fond farewell 

From one unused to sight of woods and seas, 
Amid the strife of cities doomed to dwell. 

Yet roused to ecstacy by scenes like these. 
Who could for ever sit beneath thy trees. 

Inhaling fragrance from the flowery dell ; 
Or listening to the murmur of the breeze. 

Gaze with delight on Ocean's awful swell. 
Again farewell ! nor deem that I profane 
Thy sacred porch ; for while the Sabbath strain 

May fail to turn the sinner from his ways. 
These are impressions none can feel in vain — 

These are the wonders that perforce must raise 

The soul to God, in reverential praise. 



128 SONNETS. 



THE WORLD. 

Oh, what a palace rare hast thou created, 
Almightj Architect, for man's delight ! 

With sun, and moon, and stars illuminated; 

Whose azure dome with pictured clouds is bright. 
Each painted bj thy hand — a glorious sight ! 

Whose halls are countless landscapes, variegated, 
All carpeted with flowers ; while all invite 

Each sense of man to bo with pleasure sated. 

Fruits hang ai'ound us ; music fills each beak ; 

The fields are perfumed ; and to eyes that seek 

For Nature's charms, what tears of joy will start. 

So let me thank thee, God, not with the reek 
Of sacrifice, but breathings poured apart, 
And the blood-ofiering of a grateful heart. 



TO A ROSE. 

Thou new-born Rose, emerging from the dew. 

Like Aphrodite, when the lovely bather 
Blushed from the sea, how fair thou art to view, 

And fragrant to the smell ! The Almighty Father 
Implanted thee, that men of every hue. 

Even a momentary joy might gather ; 
And shall he save one people, and pursue 

Others to endless agony ? rather 
Let me believe in thee thou holy Rose, 
Who dost alike thy lips of love unclose. 

Be thy abode by saint or savage trod. 
Thou art the priest whose sermons soothe our woes. 

Preaching, with nature's tongue from every sod, 

Love to mankind, and confidence in God. 



SONNETS. 129 



ON AN ANCIENT LANCE, HANGING IN AN ARMOURY. 

Once in the breezy coppice didst thou dance, 

And nightingales amid thy foliage sang ; 
Formed by man's cruel art into a lance, 

Oft hast thou pierced, (the while the welkin rang 

With trump and drum, shoutings and battle clang,) 
Some foeman's heart. Pride, pomp, and circumstance, 

Have left thee, now, and thou dost silent hang, 
From age to age, in deep and dusty trance. 

What is thy change to ours ? These gazing eyes, 
To earth reverting, may again arise 

In dust to settle on the self-same space ; 
Dust, which some offspring, yet unborn, who tries 
To poise thy weight, may with his hand efface, 

And with his mouldered eyes again replace. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



Lone warl)ler ! thy love-melting heart supplies 

The liquid music-fall, that from thy bill 
Gushes in such ecstatic rhapsodies. 

Drowning night's ear. Yet thine is but the skill 
Of loftier love, that hung up in the skies 

Those everlasting lamps, man's guide, until 
Morning return, and bade fresh flowers arise, 

Blooming by night, new fragrance to distil. 
Why are these blessings lavished from above 

On man, when his unconscious sense and sight 
Are closed in sleep ; but that the few who rove. 

From want or woe, or travels urge by night. 

May still have perfumes, music, flowers, and light ; 
So kind and watchful is celestial love ! 

6* 



130 SONNET. — CHARADE. 

SUNSET. 

'Tis sweet to sit beneath these walnut-trees. 

And pore upon the sun in splendour sinking, 
And think upon the wond'rous mysteries 

Of this so lovely world, until, with thinking, 

Thought is bewildered, and the spirit, shrinking 
Into itself no outward object sees. 

Still, from its inward fount, new visions drinking, 
Till the sense swims in dreamy reveries. 
Awaking from this trance, with gentle start, 
'Tis sweeter still to feel the o'erflowing heart 

Shoot its glad gushes to the thrilling cheek ; 
To feel as if the yearning soul would dart 
Upwards to God, and by its flutters speak 

Homage for which all language is too weak. 



CHARADE. 



Sordid and narrow and mean is my First, 

Where in tenements rank with tobacco and gin, 
Dwells the toiling mechanic with poverty cursed, 

'Mid the breakers of law and the victims of sin. 
'Tis gone! — a hall uprises — view 
Yon clamorous prize-fighting crew. 
Wrangling, jangling, sense entangling. 
Law new-fan gling, justice mangling — 
'Tis not Bedlam, but as bad. 
For money-mania makes them mad. 
Hey presto pass ! a graced saloon behold 

Where to a brighter star bright stars repair, 
And beauty decked in jewelry and gold, 

Curtsey to grace and beauty still more rare. 



CHARADE. 131 

From each and all of these, at times, 

Prisoned within my second's bound, 
The sick — the sad — the doomed for crimes, 

The idle and the gaj are found, 
Swiftly their wingless flight is flown. 

Their guide a lady's plaything, beckoned 
By hand unseen from spot unknown : — 

What urges thee so fast my second ? 
What hurts the eye, yet mocks the sight, 

Feels not, yet sighs and makes lament ; — 
As any floating feather light, 

And yet at times omnipotent. 
Guarded, my Second, thus, thy might 

Would seem to challenge fate and death, 
Yet doom and danger track thy flight, 

Threatening around — above — beneath. 
See, see, the lightning's angry flash ; 

Hark ! what an elemental roar ? 
A shuddering cry — a thunder crash — 

My Second 's gone — 'tis seen no more ! 
Let none but pleasant sights appear, 
' Naught but the turtle-dove be heard, 
Where Passion-flowers, to lovers dear, 

Enwreathe an arbour for my Third. — 
There the heart vents in tender sighs 

The feeling that no words can reach, 
Or makes the love-revealing eyes 

More fond and eloquent than speech. 
Fulfilled be all the hopes ye raise. 

Enamoured inmates of the bower. 
And oh ! may all your future days 

Be blissful as the present hour ! 

[Courtship.] 



132 CHARADE. 



CHARADE. 



Gin-palace Circe ! quit the niche 

Or den that constitutes my Fust, 
Nor from below, thou fair foul witch ! 

Call spirits baleful and accursed. 
She 's gone ! — Beware ! your pouch to pick, 

Yon crew throws dust into your eyes : 
Distrust their flowers of rhetoric, 

They garland whom they victimize. 
Now to our dearest hopes opposed, 

My changeful First ! thou 'rt all we dread ; 
And now, in solid gold disclosed. 

How eagerly thou 'rt coveted ! 
But ah ! most fatal art thou when 

Thou 'rt formed beneath the 'whelming wave, 
Of women fair and gallant men. 

The Sacrificer and the grave ! 

The friend, the lover, are on thee, 

My Second ! source of many a tear, 
When their vexed souls they cannot free 

From dark suspense, and jealous fear. 
On thee, within this prison lone, 

The doomed assassin or the thief, 
Vents, in his agony, the groan, 

Or prays for death as a relief 
I see thee speeding overhead, 

As if thou hadst an eagle's wing, 
I see thee in the cattle shed, 

A lifeless and unmoving thing. 



CHARADE. 13o 

Mj Third is fashioned to enfold 
Strange implements of war. — Behold 

Those frames with human features, 
By time and artificial means 
They 're manufactured to machines 

For killing human creatures. 
Obedient moves — east, west, north, south, 
Up to the breach, or cannon's mouth : 

Each automatic figure — 
'Gainst friend or foe, whate'er the cause. 
With equal nonchalance he draws 

His death-dispensing trigger. 
Enslaved alike in frame and mind. 
Life's object for its means resigned, 

What gains the unlucky varlet ? 
Dying, he sleeps on honour's couch. 
And living, flaunts with empty pouch, 

In outward gold and scarlet. 
Never were muscles, bones, and will, 
By such self-sacrificing skill. 

Made neuter, passive, active. 
Machine ! thou 'rt mechanism's pride, 
But never was its art applied 

To purpose less attractive ! 

[Barrack.] 



CHAKADE. 



Oh ! what a glorious city ! — behold 

Its obelisks, pyramids, sphinx-guarded fanes. 

You gaze on Bubastis in Egypt of old, 

And hark ! to those sacred melodious strains ! 



134 CHARADE. 

The dulcimer, harp, sha^Ym, and tabret combine 

With the choral rejoicings and anthems that burst 
From yon temple's august and magnificent shrine. 

Where prostrated crowds are adoring mj First. 
How strange the conflicting caprices and whims 

Of blind superstition ! some ages are fled, 
And the object which living was Avorshipped with hymns. 

And graced with an apotheosis when dead. 
In Europe is marked for proscription and ban, 

As leagued with the foul and unsanctified crew 
Who ply the black art that 's forbidden to man, 

And with spirits of darkness dark courses pursue. 

And where is my changeable Secojid displayed ? 

In the belle and the bird, in the damsel and crone, 
In the foul and the fair, in the matron and maid. 

In the dabbler in mud, in the queen on her throne. 
Who can reckon its changes of form and abode ? 

Arched and square, low and dirty, distorted and strait. 
It is seen in the ditch, on the dunghill, the road, 

In the huts of the poor, in the halls of the great. 
It is pure flesh and blood, when from Nature's own hand: 

ISIade by man, its diversified substance is found 
In the fish of the deep, in the beasts of the land. 

In the trees of the field, in the ore under ground. 
If sometimes 'tis Avorn unembellished and plain. 

By the wives or the daughters of niggardly churls. 
At others 'tis decked with a glittering train 

Of diamonds and amethysts, rubies and pearls. 

In my populous Third what a withering change 
From the bushy Bubastis my first gave to sight : 

No sunbeam, no moon gilds its desolate range ; 
All is silence profound and perpetual night. 



THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS. 135 

It has numberless houses and each one contains 

A single inhabitant ever asleep, 
No footfall is heard in its streets and its lanes, 

In the midst of a crowd there is solitude deep. 
Here lovers whose union has long been denied. 

Often meet, but no love-breathing whisper is heard ; 
Here bitterest foemen are placed side by side, 

But the warfare is over : there's peace in mj Third! 

[Catacomb.] 



ADDRESS TO THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS, 

L4.TELY DEPOSITED IN THE BEITI8II MUSEUM. 

Thou alabaster relic ! while I hold 

Mj hand upon thj sculptured margin thrown, 

Let me recall the scenes thou couldst unfold, 

Mightst thou relate the changes thou hast known, 

For thou wert primitive in thj formation. 

Launched from th' Almighty's hand at the Creation. 

Yes — Thou wert present when the stars and skies 
And worlds unnumbered rolled into their places; 

When God from Chaos bade the spheres arise, 
And fixed the blazing sun upon its basis, 

And with his finger on the bounds of space 

Marked out each planet's everlasting race. 

How many thousand ages from thy birth 

Thou sleptst in darkness, it were vain to ask, 

Till Egypt's sons upheaved thee from the earth, 
And year by year pursued their patient task ; 

Till thou wert carved and decorated thus. 

Worthy to be a King's Sarcophagus. 



136 ADDRESS TO 

What time Elijah to the skies ascended, 

Or David reigned in holy Palestine, 
Some ancient Theban monarch was extended 

Beneath the lid of this emblazoned shrine, 
And to that subterranean palace borne 
Which toiling ages in the rock had worn. 

Thebes from her hundred portals filled the plain 
To see the car on which thou wert upheld : — 

What funeral pomps extended in thy train, 

What banners waved, what mighty music swelled, 

As armies, priests, and crowds, bewailed in chorus 

Their King — their God — their Serapis — their Orus ! 

Thus to thy second quarry did they trust 
Thee and the Lord of all the nations round. 

Grim King of Silence ! Monarch of the dust ! 
Embalmed — anointed — jeweled — seep tered-- crowned. 

Here did he lie in state, cold, stiff, and stark, 

A leathern Pharaoh grinning in the dark. 

Thus ages rolled — but their dissolving breath 
Could only blacken that imprisoned thing 

Which wore a ghastly royalty in death, 
As if it struo-crled still to be a King; ; 

And each revolving century, like the last. 

Just dropped its dust upon thy lid — and passed. 

The Persian conqueror o'er Egypt poured 

His devastating host — a motley crew ; 
The steel-clad horsemen — the barbarian horde — 

Music and men of every sound and hue — 
Priests, archers, eunuchs, concubines and brutes — 
Gongs, trumpets, cymbals, dulcimers, and lutes. 



THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS. 137 

Then did the fierce Cambyses tear away 

The ponderous rock that sealed the sacred tomb ; 

Then did the slowly penetrating ray 

Redeem thee from long centuries of gloom, 

And lowered torches flashed against thy side 

As Asia's king thy blazoned trophies eyed. 

Plucked from his grave, with sacrilegious taunt, 
The features of the royal corpse they scanned : — 

Dashing the diadem from his temple gaunt, 
They tore the sceptre from his graspless hand, 

And on those fields, where once his will was law. 

Left him for winds to waste and beasts to gnaw. 

Some pious Thebans, when the storm was past, 
Unclosed the sepulchre with cunning skill, 

And nature, aiding their devotion, cast 
Over its entrance a concealing rill. 

Then thy third darkness came, and thou didst sleep 

Twenty-three centuries in silence deep. 

But he from whom nor pyramid nor sphinx 

Can hido its secrecies, Belzoni, came ; 
From the tomb's mouth unloosed the granite links, 

Gave thee again to light, and life, and fame, 
And brought thee from the sands and desert forth 
To charm the pallid children of the North. 

Thou art in London, which, when thou wert new, 
Was, what Thcljes is, a wilderness and waste. 

Where savage beasts more savage men pursue — 
A scene by nature cursed — by man disgraced. 

Now — 'tis the world's metropolis— the high 

Queen of arms, learning, arts, and luxury. 



138 THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS. 

Here, where I hold my hand, 'tis strange to think 
What other hands perchance preceded mine ; 

Others have also stood beside thy brink, 
And vainly conned the moralizing line. 

Kings, sages, chiefs, that touched this stone, like me, 

Where are ye now ? — where all must shortly be ! 

All is mutation ; — he within this stone 

Was once the greatest monarch of the hour : — 

His bones are dust — his very name unknown. 
Go — learn from him the vanity of power : 

Seek not the frame's corruption to control, 

But build a lasting mansion for thy soul. 



COMIC POEMS, 



THE CULPRIT AND THE JUDGE. 

The realm of France possessed, in days of old, 

A thriving set of literati, 
Or men of letters, turning all to gold : — 

The standard works they made less weighty 
By new abridgments — took abundant 

Pains their roughnesses to polish, 

And plied their scissors to abolish 
The superficial and redundant. 

And yet, instead of fame and praise, 
Hogsheads of sack, and wreaths of bays, 
The law, in those benighted ages, 
■By barbarous edicts did enjoin 
That they should cease their occupation, 
Terming these literary sages 

Clippers and filers of the coin ; 
(Oh ! what a monstrous profanation !) 
Nay, what was deeper to be dreaded. 
These worthies were, when caught, beheaded ! 

But to the point. A story should 

Be like a coin — a head and tail. 
In a few words enveloped. Good ! 

I must not let the likeness fail. — 



140 SONNET TO MY OWN NOSE. 

A gascon who liad long pursued 

This trade of clipping, 
And filing the similitude 

Of good King Pepin, 
Was caught by the police, who found him 

With file and scissors in his hand 

And ounces of Pactolian sand 
Lying around him. 
The case admitting no denial, 
They hurried him forthwith to trial ; 
When the judge made a long oration, 
About the crime of profanation, 
And gave no respite for repentance, 
But instantly pronounced his sentence, 
" Decapitation!" 

"As to ofiending powers divine," 

The culprit cried — "be nothing said : 

Yours is a deeper guilt than mine. 
I took a portion from the head 

Of the king's image ; you, oh fearful odds ! 

Strike the whole head at once from God's !" 



SONNET TO MY OWN NOSE. 

NOSE ! thou rudder in my face's centre, 
Since I must follow thee until I die — 

Since we are bound together by indenture. 
The master thou, and the apprentice I, 

be to your Telemachus a Mentor, 
Though oft invisible, for ever nigh ; 

Guard him from all disgrace and misadventure, 



THE MILKMAID AND THE BANKER. 141 

From hostile tweak, or love's blind mastery. 
So shalt thou quit the citj's stench and smoke, 
For hawthorn lanes and copses of young oak, 

Scenting the gales of heaven that have not yet 
Lost their fresh fragrance, since the morning broke. 

And breath of flowers " with rosy May-dews wet," 

The primrose, cowslip, blue-bell, violet. 



THE MILKMAID AND THE BANKER. 

A Milkmaid, with a very pretty face, 

Who lived at Acton, 
Had a black Cow the ugliest in the place, 

A crooked-backed one, 
A beast as dangerous, too, as she was frightful, 

Vicious, and spiteful ; 
And so confirmed a truant, that she bounded 
Over the hedges daily, and got pounded : 
'Twas all in vain to tie her with a tether. 
For then both Cow and cord eloped together. 
Armed with an oaken bough — (Avhat folly ! 
It should have been of thorn, or prickly holly.) 
Patty one day was driving home the beast, 
Which had, as usual, slipped its anchor. 
When on the road she met a certain Banker, 
Who stopped to give his eyes a feast, 
By gazing on her features crimsoned high 
By a long Cow-chase in July. 

"Are you from Acton, pretty lass?" he cried; 
" Yes" — with a curtesy she replied. 



142 THE farmer's wife and the GASCON. 

" Wliy, then you know the laundress, Sallj Wrench ?" 
"Yes, she's my cousin, sh*, and next-door neighbour." 
"That's lucky — I 've a message for the wench, 

Which needs dispatch, and you may save my labour. 
Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it : 
But mind, you owe me one — I 've only lent it." 
" She shall know," cried the girl, as she brandish' d her 
bough, 

"Of the loving intentions you bore me ; 
But since you 're in haste for the kiss, you '11 allow, 
That you 'd better run forward and give it my Cow, 
For she, at the rate she is scampering now. 

Will reach Acton some minutes before me." 



THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE GASCON. 

At Neufchatel, in France, where they prepare 

Cheeses that set us longing to be Mites, 
There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare 

Skill in these small quadrangular delights. — 
Where they were made, they sold for the immense 

Price of three sous a-piece ; 
But as salt water made their charms increase. 

In England the fixed rate was eigh teen-pence. 

This damsel had to help her in the farm, 
To milk her cows, and feed her hogs, 

A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm 
For digging, or for carrying logs; 

But in his noddle weak as any baby. 
In fact a gaby, 



THE farmer's AVIFE AND THE GASCON. 143 

And such a glutton when you came to feed him, 

That Wantlej's dragon, who " ate barns and churches, 

As if they were geese and turkeys," 

(Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him. 

One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl 

Of cream, like nectar. 
And wouldn't go to Church (good careful soul!) 

Till she had left it safe with a protector ; 
So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon 

To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone. 

Watch it he did — he never took his eyes off, 
But licked his upper, then his under lip, 
And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off, 
Begrudging them the smallest sip, 
Which if they got, 
Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh, 
And cried, — " happy, happy fly, 
How I do envy you your lot !" 

Each moment did his appetite grow stronger ; 

His bowels yearned ; 
At length he could not bear it any longer. 

But on all sides his looks he turned. 
And finding that the coast was clear, he quaffed 

The whole up at a draught. — 
Scudding from church, the farmer's wife 

Flew to the dairy ; 
But stood aghast, and could not, for her Hfe, 

One sentence utter. 
Until she summoned breath enough to mutter, 

''Holy St. Mary!" 



144 THE farmer's wife and the GASCON. 

And shortly, with a face of scarlet, 
The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew 

Upon the varlet. 
Asking the when, and where, and how, and who 

Had gulped her cream, nor left an atom ; 
To which he gave not separate replies, 

But with a look of excellent digestion, 

One answer made to every question, 
"The Flies!" 

" The flies, you rogue ! the flies, you guzzling dog ! 

Behold your whiskers still are covered thickly ; 
Thief — liar — villain — gormandizer — hog! 

I'll make you tell another story quickly." 
So out she bounced, and brought, with loud alarms, 

Two stout Gens-d'armeSy 
Who bore him to the judge — a little prig. 

With angry bottle nose 

Like a red cabbage rose, 
While lots of white ones flourished on his wig. — 
Looking at once both stern and wise, 

He turned to the delinquent, 
And 'gan to question him and catechise 

As to which way the drink went : 
Still the same dogged answers rise, 
" The flies, my Lord — the flies, the flies !" 

" Psha !" quoth the judge, half peevish and half pomp- 
ous, 

"Why, you're non compos. 
You should have watched the bowl as she desired, 

And killed the flies, you stupid clown." 
"What, is it lawful then," the dolt enquired, 

" To kill the flies in this here town?"— 



THE AIJCTIONEER AND THE LAIVTER. 145 

" Tlie man 's an ass ! a pretty question this ! 
Lawful, you booby? to be sure it is. — 
You 've my authority, whene'er you meet 'em 
To kill the rogues, and if you like it, eat 'em." 

" Zooks !" cried the rustic, "I'm right glad to hear it. 

Constable, catch that thief ! may I go hang * 

If yonder blue-bottle, (I know his face,) 

Is n't the very leader of the gang 
That stole the cream, let me come near it !" 

This said, he started from his place, 
And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows 
At a large fly upon the Judge's nose, 
The luckless blue-bottle he smashed, 

And gratified a double grudge, 
For the same catapult completely mashed 

The bottle-nose belonging to the Judge ! 



THE AUCTIONEER AND THE LAWYER. 

A CITY Auctioneer, one Samuel Stubbs, 
Did greater execution with his hammer, 
Assisted by his puffing clamour. 
Than Gog and Magog with their clubs, 
Or that great Fee-fa-fum of War, 
The Scandinavian Thor, 
Did with his mallet, which (see Bryant's 
Mythology,) felled stoutest giants; — 
For Samuel knocked down houses, churches, 
And woods of oak, and elms, and birches, 
With greater ease than mad Orlando 
Tore the first tree he set his hand to. — 
V 



146 THE AUCTIONEER AND THE LAWYER. 

He ought in reason to have raised his own 

Lot by knocking others' down. 

And had he been content with shaking 

His hammer and his hand, and taking 

Advantage of what brought him grist, he 

Might have been as rich as Christie ; 

But somehow when thy midnight bell, Bow, 

Sounded along Cheapside its knell. 

Our spark was busy in Pall-Mali 
Shaking his elbow ; — 
Marking, with paw upon his mazzard. 
The turns of hazard ; 
Or rattling in a box the dice. 

Which seemed as if a grudge they bore 
To Stubbs ; for often in a trice, 
Down on the nail he was compelled to pay 
All that his hammer brought him in the day. 

And sometimes more. 
Thus hke a male Penelope, our wight 
What he had done by day undid by night : 
No wonder, therefore, if like her 

He was beset by clamorous brutes, 
Who crowded round him to prefer 

Their several suits. 

One Mr. Snipps, the tailor, had the longest 
Bill for many suits — of raiment. 

And naturally thought he had the strongest 
Claim for payment. 

But debts of honour must be paid, 

Whate'er becomes of debts of trade ; 

And so our stylish auctioneer, 

From month to month throughout the year, 



THE AUCTIONEER AND THE LAWYER. 147 

Excuses, falsehoods, pleas, alleges; 
Or flatteries, compliments, and pledges, 
When in the latter mood one day. 
He squeezed his hand, and swore to pay. 

" But when ?" "Next month, you may depend on 't, 

My dearest Snipps, before the end on't ; 

Your face proclaims, in every feature, 

You would n't harm a fellow creature — 

You're a kind soul, I know you are, Snipps." — 

" Ay, so you said six months ago ; 

But such fine woi'ds, I'd have you know, 

Butter no parsnips." 

This said, he bade his lawyer draw 

A special writ, 

Serve it on Stubbs, and follow it 
Up with the utmost rigour of the law. 

This lawyer was a friend of Stubbs ; 
That is to say 
In a civic way, 
Where business interposes not its rubs ; 
For where the main chance is in question, 

Damon leaves Pythias to the stake, 

Pylades and Orestes break. 
And Alexander cuts Hephgestion ; 
But when our man of law must sue his friends, 
Tenfold politeness made amends. 

So when he meets our Auctioneer, 

Into his outstretched hand he thrust his 

Writ, and said with friendly leer, 

" My dear, dear Stubbs, pray do me justice ; 



148 THE GOUTY MERCHANT. 

In this affair I hope you see 
No censure can attach to me — • 

Don't entertain a "wrong impression ; 
I'm doing now what must be done 

In my profession." — 

" And so am I," Stubbs answered with a frown ; 
So crying, " Going — going— going — gone !" 

He knocked him down. 



THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. 

In Broad Street Buildings, on a winter night, 
Snug by his parlour fire a gouty wight 
Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing 

His leg wrapped up in fleecy hose. 

While t'other held beneath his nose 
The Public Ledger, in whose columns, grubbing, 

He noted all the sales of hops. 

Ships, shops, and slops. 
Gums, galls, and groceries, ginger, gin, 
Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin ; 

When lo ! a decent personage in black 

Entered, and most politely said — 
" Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track, 

To the King's Head, 
And left your door ajar, which I 
Observed in passing by, 
And thought it neighbourly to give you notice." 

" Ten thousand thanks ! how very few get, 

In time of danger, 

Such kind attentions from a stranger ! 



THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC. 149 

Assuredly that fellow's throat is 

Doomed to a final drop at Newgate, 
He knows too, the unconscionable elf! 
That there 's no soul at home except myself" 

"Indeed!" replied the stranger, looking grave; 

" Then he 's a double knave. 

He knows that rogues and thieves by scores 

Nightly beset unguarded doors ; 

And see how easily might one 

Of these domestic foes, 

Even beneath your very nose, 
Perform his knavish tricks, 
Enter your room as I have done. 
Blow out your candles — thus, and thus 
Pocket your silver candlesticks — 

And walk off thus!" 

So said, so done — he made no more remark ; 

Nor waited for replies, 

But marched off with his prize, 
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. 



THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC. 

Cardinal Wolsey was a man 

Of an unbounded stomach, Shakespeare says : 
Meaning, (in metaphor,) for ever puffing 
To swell beyond his size and span ; 

But had he seen a player of our days 
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing, 



150 THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC. 

He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal 
Equalled not that within the bounds 
This actor's belt surrounds, 

Which is, moreover, all alive and real. 

This player, when the Peace enabled shoals 

Of our odd fishes 
To visit every clime between the poles, 
Swam with the stream, a histrionic Kraken : 

Although his wishes 
Must not in this proceeding be mistaken, 
For he went out professionally bent 
To see how money might be made, not spent. 

In this most laudable employ 

He found himself at Lille one afternoon ; 
And that he might the breeze enjoy, 

And catch a peep at the ascending moon, 
Out of the town he took a stroll. 
Refreshing in the fields his soul 
With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces, 
And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces. 

When we are pleasantly employed, time flies ; — 
He counted up his profits in the skies, 

Until the moon began to shine, 
On which he gazed awhile, and then, 

Pulled out his watch, and cried — " Past nine ! 
Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten!" 
Backwards he turned his steps instanter, 

Stumping along with might and main, 

And though 'tis plain 
He could n't gallop, trot, or canter, 
(Those who had seen it would confess it,) he 
Marched well for one of such obesity. 



THE BANK CLERK. 151 

Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping, 

He puffed and blew along the road. 

Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping ; 

When in his path he met a clown, 

Returning from the town. — 

" Tell me," he panted in a thawing state, 

" Dost think I can get in friend, at the gate?" 

" Get in ?" replied the hesitating loon, 
Measuring with his eye our bulky wight : 
" Why yes, sir, I should think you might — 

A load of hay got in this afternoon !" 



THE BANK CLERK AND THE STABLE KEEPERS : 

Showing how Peter was undone 
By taking care of Number One. — 

Of Peter Prim (so Johnson would have written,) 
Let me indulge in the remembrance ; — Peter ! 

Thy formal phiz has oft my fancy smitten. 
For sure the Bank had never a completer 

Quiz among its thousand clerks, 

Than he who elicits our remarks. — 

Prim was a formalist, a prig, 

A solemn fop, an oiBce Martinet, 
One of those small precisians who look big 

If half an hour before their time they get 
To an appointment, and abuse those elves 
Who are not over-punctual like themselves. 



152 THE BANK CLERK AND 

K you should mark his powdered head betimes, 

And pohshed shoes in Lothburj, 
You knew the hour — for the three quarters' chimes 

Invariably struck as he went by ; 
From morning fines he always saved his gammon, 
Not from his hate of sloth, but love of Mammon. 

For Peter had a special eye 
To Number One — his charity 

At home beginning, ne'er extends, 
But where it started had its end too ; 

And as to lending cash to friends, 
Luckily he had none to lend to. 

No purchases so cheap as his, 

While no one's bargains went so far. 

And though in dress a deadly quiz. 
No Quaker more particular. 

This live automaton, who seemed 
To move by clockwork, ever keen 
To live upon the saving plan, 
Had soon the honour to be deemed 
That selfish, heartless, cold machine. 
Called in the City — ^a warm man. 

A Bank Director once, who dwelt at Chigwell, 

Prim to a turtle-feast invited. 
And as the reader knows the prig well, 

I need not say he went, delighted ; 
For great men, when they let you slice their meat. 
May give a slice of loan — a richer treat. 



THE STABLE-KEEPERS. 153 

No stage leaves Chigwell after eight, 
Which was too early to come back. 

So, after much debate, 

Peter resolved to hire a hack ; 

The more inclined to this, because he knew 

In London Wall, at Number Two, 

An economic stable-keeper. 

From whom he hoped to get one cheaper. 

Behold him mounted on his jade, 

A perfect Johnny Gilpin figure ; 
But the good bargain he had made 

Compensating for sneer and snigger, 
He trotted on — arrived — sat down. 

Devoured enough for six or seven, 
His horse remounted, and reached town 

As he had fixed, exactly at eleven. 
But whether habit led him, or the Fates 

To give a preference to Number One, 

(As he had always done,) 
Or that the darkness jumbled the two gates, 
Certain it is he gave that bell a drao;, 

Instead of Number Two, 
Rode in — dismounted — left his nag, 

And homeward hurried without more ado. 

Some days elapsed, and no one came 
To bring the bill, or payment claim ; 
He 'gan to hope 'twas overlooked. 
Forgotten quite, or never booked. 
An error which the honesty of Prim 
Would ne'er have rectified, if left to him. 
After six weeks, however, comes a pair 
Of groom-like looking men, 



154 PIRON, AND 

Each with a bill, which Peter they submit to ; 
One for the six weeks' hire of a bay mare, 
Aiicl one for six weeks' keep of ditto : 
Together — twenty-two pounds ten ! 

The tale got wind. What ! Peter make a blunder ? 

There was no end of joke, and quiz, and wonder, 

Which, with the loss of cash, so mortified 
Prim, that he suffered an attack 
Of bile, and bargained with a quack. 

Who daily swore to cure him — till he died ; 
When, as no will was found. 

His scraped, and saved, and hoarded store. 
Went to a man to whom, some months before, 
He had refused to lend a pound ! 



PIRON, AND THE JUDGE OF THE POLICE. 

PiRON, a Poet of the Gallic nation. 

Who beat all waggish rivals hollow, 
Was apt to draw his inspiration 

Rather from Bacchus than Apollo. 
His hostess was his deity. 
His Hippocrene was eau-de-vie; 
And though 'tis said 

That poets live not till they die. 
When living he was often dead — 
That is to say, dead drunk. "While I," 
Quoth Piron, "am by all upbraided 

With drunkenness, the vilest, worst, 
Most base, detestable, degraded, 
Of sins that ever man repented, 

None of you blames this cursed thirst 



THE JUDGE OF THE POLICE. 155 

With which I'm constantlj tormented. — 
Worse than a cholic or a phthisic, 

Even now it gripes me so severely, 
That I must flj to calm it, merely 
Swallowing brandy as a physic." 

To cure this unrelenting fever 

He poured such doses through his lips, he 
Was shortly what the French call ivre. 

Angl'icl — tipsy ; 
And while the midnight bell was pealing 

Its solemn tolling, 
Our Bacchanal was homeward reeling. 

Tumbling and rolling, 
Until at last he made a stop. 

Suffering his noddle, which he could not keep 
Upright, upon the ground to drop. 

And in two minutes was asleep, 
Fast as a top. 

Round came the guard, and seeing him extended 

Across the gutter 

Incompetent to move or utter. 
They thought at first his days were ended ; 
But finding that he was not dead, 
Having lost nothing but his head. 
They popped him on a horse's back, 

Just like a sack, 

And shot him on the guard-house floor, 

To let him terminate his snore. 

t 

Next morning when our tippling bard 

Had got his senses. 
They brought a coach into the yard, 

And drove him off to answer his offences. 



156 PIRON AND THE JUDGE. 

Before the Judge of the Police, 

Who made a mighty fuss and clamour ; 
But, like some Justices of peace, 

Who know as much of law as grammar, 

Was an egregious ninnj-hammer. 
" Well, fellow," cried the magistrate, 

" What have you got to say for boozing, 
Then lying in the street and snoozing 
All night in that indecent state ?" 
" Sir," quoth the culprit to the man of law, 

" It was a frost last night in town, 
And tired of tripping, sliding, and slipping, 

Mcthought I might as well lie down, 
And wait until there came a thaw." 

" Pooh ! nonsense ! psha ! 
Imprisonment must be the lot 
Of such a vagabond and sot. 
But, tell me, fellow, Avhat's your name?" 

" PiRON."— " The dramatist?"— "The same." 

"Ah, well, Avell, well. Monsieur Piron, 

Pray take your hat and quit the court. 

For wags like you must have their sport; 

But recollect, when you are gone, 

You'll owe me one and thus I shew it : 

I have a brother who's a poet. 

And lives as you do, by his wits." 

Quoth PiRON, " that can never pass. 

For I've a brother who's an ass, 
So we are quits." 



THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 157 



THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 

A COUNSEL in the Common Pleas, 

Who was esteemed a mightj wit, 

Upon the strength of a chance hit 
Amid a thousand flippancies, 
And his occasional bad jokes 

In bullying, bantering, browbeating, 

Ridiculing, and maltreating 
Women, or other timid folks. 

In a late cause resolved to hoax 
A clownish Yorkshire fixrmer — one 

Who, by his uncouth look and gait, 

Appeared expressly meant by Fate 
For being quizzed and played upon : 
So having tipped the wink to those 

In the back rows. 
Who kept their laughter bottled down, 

Until our wag should draw the cork. 
He smiled jocosely on the clown. 

And went to work. 

" Well, Farmer Numscull, how go calves at York ?" 

"Why — not, sir, as they do wi' you. 

But on four legs, instead of two." 
"Officer!" cried the legal elf. 
Piqued at the laugh against himself, 

" Do pray keep silence down below there. 
Now look at me, clown, and attend ; 
Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?" 

" Yees — very like — I often go there." 
" Our rustic's waggish — quite laconic," 
The counsel cried, with grin sardonic ; 



158 THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER. 

" I wish I'd known this prodigy, 
This genius of the clods, when I 
On circuit was at York residing. 
Now, Farmer, do for once speak true — - 
Mind, jou' re on oath, so tell me, jou, 
Who doubtless think yourself so clever. 
Are there as many fools as ever 

In the West Riding?" 
" Why — no, sir, no; we've got our share, 
But not so many as when you were there !" 



THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER. 

At Trin. Coll. Cam. — which means, in proper spelling, 
Trinity College, Cambridge, there resided 

One Harry Dashington — a youth excelling 
In all the learning commonly provided 

For those who choose that classic station 

For finishing their education : 

That is, he understood computing 

The odds at any race or match ; 

Was a dead hand at pigeon-shooting ; 

Could kick up rows, knock down the watch — 

Play truant and the rake at random — 

Drink — tie cravats — and drive a tandem. 

Remonstrance, fine, and rustication. 
So far from working reformation, 

Seemed but to make his lapses greater, 
Till he was warned that next offence 
Would have this certain consequence — 

Expulsion from his Alma Mater. 



THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER. 159 

One need not be a necromancer 

To guess that, with so wild a wight, 
The next offence occurred next night, 
When our incurable came rolling 
Home as the midnight chimes were tolling, 

And rung the College bell. — No answer. 

The second peal was vain — the third 

Made the street echo its alarum ; 
When to his great delight he heard 
The sordid Janitor, old Ben, 
Rousing and growling in his den. 

" Who's there? — I s'pose young Harum Scarum." 
" 'Tis I, mj worthy Ben, 'tis Harry." 
" Aye, so I thought — and there you '11 tarry. 

'Tis past the hour — the gates are closed. 
You know my orders ; I shall lose 

My place if I undo the door." 
" And I (young Hopeful interposed) 
" Shall be expelled if you refuse ; 

So prythee" — Ben began to snore. 

"I'm wet," cried Harry, " to the skin; 

Hip ! hallo ! Ben ! — do n't be a ninny; 

Beneath the gate I've thrust a guinea, 
So tumble out and let me in." — 

"Humph!" growled the greedy old curmudgeon, 
Half overjoyed and half in dudgeon, 

^^Noio, you may pass, but make no fuss, 
On tiptoe walk, and hold your prate." 

"Look on the stones, old Cerberus," 
Cried Harry as he passed the gate, 
" I've dropped a shilling — take the light. 
You'll find it just outside ; — good night." 



160 THE COLLEGIAN AND THE POKTEK. 

Behold the porter in his shirt, 

Cursing the rain which never stopped, 
Groping and raking in the dirt, 
And all without success ; but that 
Is hardly to be wondered at, 

Because no shilling had been dropped ; 
So he gave o'er the search at last, 
Regained the door and found it fast ! 

With sundry oaths, and growls, and groans, 

He rang, once, twice, and thi-ice ; and then, 

Mingled with giggling, heard the tones 
Of Harrj, mimicking old Ben. 

" Who 's there ? — 'Tis really a disgrace 

To ring so loud. — I've locked the gate — 
I know my duty — 'tis too late. 
You would n't have me lose my place ?" 
"Psha! Mr. Dashington: remember, 
This is the middle of November, 

I'm stripped, 'tis raining cats and dogs." 
" Hush, hush !" quoth Hal, " I'm fast asleep;" 
And then he snored as loud and deep 
As a whole company of hogs : 
"But, harkye, Ben, I'll grant admittance 

At the same rate I paid myself." 
" Nay, master, leave me half the pittance," 

Replied the avaricious elf 
" No : all or none — a full acquittance : 
The terms, I know, are somewhat high ; 
But you have fixed the price, not I — 
I won't take less, I can't afford it." 
So, finding all his haggling vain, 
Ben, with an oath and groan of pain. 

Drew out the guinea, and restored it. 



THE MAYOR OF MIROBLAIS. 161 

" Surely you '11 give me," growled the outwitted 
Porter, when again admitted, 

" Something, now you 've done your joking, 
For all this trouble, time, and soaking." 

" Oh surely, surely," Harry said; 
" Since, as you urge, I broke your rest. 
And you 're half drowned, and quite undress'd, 
I'll give you — leave to go to bed !" 



THE MAYOR OF MROBLAIS. 

While he was laying plans for getting 
The honours of the Chapeau rouge, 
The Cardinal Dubois was ever fretting ; 
All his days and nights allotting 
To bribes and schemes, intriguing, plotting, 

Until his face grew yellow as gamboge, 
His eyes sepulchral, dull, and gummy. 
And his whole frame a walking mummy. 

Meanwhile his steward, De la Vigne, 
Seemed to be fattening on his master, 

For, as the one grew lank and lean, 
The other only thrived the faster. 

Enjoying, as he swelled in figure. 
Such constant spirits, laugh, and snigger, 
That it e'en struck his Excellency, 
Who called him up and asked him whence he 
Contrived to get so plump and jolly. 
While he himself, a man of rank. 
Visibly shrank. 
And daily grew more melancholy. 



162 THE MAYOR OP MIROBLAIS, 

" Really, mj lord," the steward said, 
" There 's nothing marvellous in that; 

You have a hat for ever in your head, 
My head is always in my hat." 

Dubois, too wealthy to be marred in all 
His plots, was presently a Cardinal, 

And wore what he had pined to win ; 
When pasquinades soon flew about, 
Hinting his sconce was deeper red without, 

Than 'twas within. 

Perhaps it was, but that's no matter, 
The Pope, like any other hatter, 
Makes coverings, not heads ; and this 

With its new guest agreed so well, 
That he soon wore an altered phiz : 

Ate heartily, began to swell, 
Recovered from his ails and ills, 
And grew quite rosy in the gills. 

'Tis strange, but true, our worthy wore 

Fine robes, and waxed both plump and fresh, 
From the first moment he forswore 

All pomps and appetites of flesh. — 
His Eminence, on this inflation 
Both of his stomach and his station, 

His old Chateau resolved to visit, 
Accompanied by one Dupin, 
A sandy-headed little man. 

Who daily managed to elicit 
Jokes from some French Joe Miller's page, 
Old, and but little of their age ; 



THE MAYOR OF MIROBLAIS. 163 

Though they drew forth as never-failing 

A roar of laughter every time, 

As if they were as new and prime 
As those which we are now retailing. 

To the Chateau in Languedoc, 

Whole deputations 
From the surrounding districts flock, 

With odes, addresses, gratulations, 

And long orations ; 
And amongst others, the Prefet 

Of Miroblais, 

Famed for its annual Fair of Asses, 
Began a speech which, by its dull 
Exordium, threatened to be full 

As long and diy as fifty masses. 

Dupin, who saw his yawning master 

Somewhat annoyed by this disaster, 

And thought it might be acceptable 

To quiz the bore, and stop his gabble. 
Abruptly cried — " Pray Mr. Mayor, 
How much did asses fetch, last Fair?" 

"Why, sir," the worthy mayor replied, 

As the impertinent he eyed — 

"Small sandy ones, like you, might each 

Sell for three crowns, and plenty too ;" 
Then quietly resumed his speech, 

And mouthed it regularly through. 



164 RABELAIS AND THE LAMPREYS. 



RABELAIS AND THE LAMPREYS. 

When the eccentric Rabelais was physician 
To Cardinal Lorraine, he sat at dinner 
Beside that gormandizing sinner ; 

Not like the medical magician 

Who whisked from Sancho Panza's fauces 

The evanescent meats and sauces, 
But to protect his sacred master 
Against such diet as obstructs 
The action of the epigastre, 
O'erloads the biliary ducts, 

The peristaltic motion crosses, 

And puzzles the digestive process. 

The Cardinal, one hungry day. 

First having with his eyes consumed 
Some lampreys that before him fumed, 
Had plunged his fork into the prey, 
When Rabelais gravely shook his head, 
Tapped on his plate three times and said — 

'• Pah ! — hard digestion ! hard digestion !" 
And his bile-dreading Eminence, 
Though sorely tempted, had the sense 
To send it off without a question. — 

" Hip ! Hallo ! bring the lampreys here !" 
Cried Rabelais, as the dish he snatched ; 

And gobbling up the dainty cheer. 
The whole was instantly dispatched. 

Redden' d with vain attempts at stifling 
At once his wrath and appetite, 



THE BITER BIT. 165 

His patron cried, " Your conduct's rude, 
This is no subject, sir, for trifling ; 
How dare you designate this food 
As indigestible and crude, 

Then swallow it before my sight?" 

Quoth Rabelais, " It may soon be shown 

That I don't merit this rebuff: 
I tapped the plate, and that you'll own, 
Is indio;estible enough; 
But as to this unlucky fish, 
With you so strangely out of favour. 

Not only 'tis a Avholesome dish, 
But one of most delicious flavour !" 



THE BITER BIT. 



Jack Dobson, honest son of tillage, 

The Toby Philpot of his village, 
Laugh'd and grew fat, Time's gorgon visage braving: 

To hear him cackle at a hoax, 

Or new edition of old jokes. 
You'd think a Roman Capitol was saving. 

Not Boniface, when at a mug 

Of ale he gave a hearty tug. 
Was fuller of his subject-matter ; 

And Dobson had a better plea 

For boasting of its pedigree ; 

For his was brewed at homOj and he 
Was infinitely fatter. 



166 THE BITER BIT. 

One cask he had better and stronger 

Than all the rest brewed at a christeninff ; 
To pass it set his eyes a glistening ; 

In short he couldn't tarrj longer, 

But seizing spiggot and a faucet, 

He tapp'd it — quaffed a luscious posset — 

Then, like a hospitable fellow, 

Sent for his friends to make them mellow. — 

Among them he invited one 

Called Tibbs, a simple-minded wight, 

Whom waggish Dobson took delight 
To make the subject of his fun : 
For Nature such few brains had put 
In neighbour Tibbs's occiput^ 

That all the rustic wags and wits 
Found him a most convenient butt 

For their good hits ; 
Though sometimes, as both great and small aver, 
■ He gave them Roland for their Oliver. 

The guests all met, and dinner spread, 
Dobson first tipped the wink, then said, 
"Well, now, my lads, we'll all draw lots, 

To settle which of us shall go 

Into the cellerage below. 
To fill the pots." 
So saying, he adroitly wriggled 

The shortest into Tibbs's paw, 
Whereat the others hugely giggled, 

And Tibbs, obedient to the law, 

Went down, the beverage to di-aw. 



THE BITER BIT. 167 

Now, Farmer Dobson, wicked wag ! 

Over the cellar door had slung 

A water-bowl, so slily hung. 
That whoso gave the door a drag, 

Was sure to shower down at once 

A quart of liquid on his sconce. 

Our host and all his brother wits. 

Soon as they heard their victim's tramp, 

Who looked half-drowned, burst into fits, 

Which in fresh peals of laughter flamed, 

When Tibbs in drawling tone, exclaimed : 

"Isn't your cellar rather damp ?" 

Grace being said, quick havoc followed ; 
Many good things were said and swallowed ; — 
Joking, laughing, stuflBng, and quaffing, 
For a full hour they pushed about 

The cans, and when there came a pause, 

From mere exhaustion of their jaws, 
Tibbs with his nasal twang drawled out — 
" Suppose we now draw lots again, 

Which of us shall go down to put 

The spiggot back into the butt." 
" Why, zounds !" the farmer roared amain — 
"The spiggot back ! come, come, you're funning, 
You have n't left the liquor running ?" 

"I did as I was ordered, Jack," 

Quoth Tibbs ; — " and if it was intentioned 

That I should put the spiggot back, 

'Tis a great pity 'twas n't mentioned ; — 

You 've lost a cask of precious stuff, 

But I, for one, have drunk enough.'' 



168 THE PARSON AT FAULT. 

"Ass! numskull! fool !" the farmer cried — 
" What can one get, confound your souls ! 
Bj asking such half-witted lubbers ?" — 
"This lesson, neighbour," Tibbs replied — 
" That those who choose to play at bowls 
Must expect rubbers 1" 



THE PARSON AT FAULT. 



A COUNTRY parson took a notion 

Into his head, one Whitsuntide, 
That it was more like true devotion 

To preach extempore ; — he tried : 
Succeeded once — twice — thrice — but, lo I 

His fourth discourse was not forthcoming ; 
Spite of his hawing and his humming, 
Not a word further could he go ; 
So that the worthy man perforce 
Was fain to leave them in the lurch, 
And say, that, since he came to church, 
He'd lost the thread of his discourse. 

Whereat a man below exclaimed, 

" Lock the doors, beadle ! search us round, 

All, every one, until it 's found ; 
The thief should really be ashamed. — 

Here are my pockets — ransack both I 

/have it not, I '11 take my oath." 



BLIND man's buff. 169 



BLIND MAN'S BUFF. 



Three wags, (whom some fastidious carpers 
Might rather designate three sharpers) 

Entered, at York, the Cat and Fiddle, 
And finding that the host was out ' 

On business for two hours or more, 

While Sam, the rustic waiter, wore 
The visage of a simple lout, 

Whom thej might safely try to diddle, 
They ordered dinner in a canter — 

Cold or hot, it mattered not, 
Provided it were served instanter ; 
And as the heat had made them very 

Dry and dusty in their throttles, 

They bade the waiter bring three bottles 
Of prime old port and one of sherry. — 

Sam ran with ardour to the larder. 

Then to the kitchen ; 
And, as he briskly went to work, he 
Drew from the spit a roasting turkey, 

With sausages embellished, which in 
A trice upon the board was spread, 
Together with a nice cold brisket. 
Nor did he even obliviscate 

Half a pig's head. 
To tliese succeeded puddings, pies, 

Custards and jellies, 
All doomed to fall a sacrifice 

To their insatiable bellies ; 
As if, like camels, they intended 
8 



170 BLIND man's buff. 

To stuff into their monstrous craws 

Enough to satisfy their maws, 
Until their pilgrimage was ended. 
Talking, laughing, eating, quaffing. 

The bottles stood no moment still ; 
Thej rallied Sam Avith joke and banter, 
And, as they drained the last decanter, 

Called -for the bill— 

'Twas brought — when one of them who eyed 
And added up the items, cried, 

" Extremely moderate indeed ! 
I'll make a point to recommend 
This inn to every travelling friend ; 

And you, Sam, shall be doubly fee'd.'" 
This said, a weighty purse he drew, 

When his companion interposed — 
'' Nay, Harry, that will never do. 

Pray let your purse again be closed ; 
You paid all charges yesterday, 
'Tis clearly now my turn to pay." 

Harry, however, wouldn't listen 

To any such insulting offer. 
His generous eyes appear to glisten 

Indignant at the very proffer ; 
And though his friend talked loud, the clangour 
Served but to aggravate Hal's anger, 

"My worthy fellow," cried the third, 

" Now really this is too absurd ; 
What ! do both of ye forget 
I haven't paid a farthing yet? 
Am I eternally to cram 



BLIND man's buff. 171 

At your expense? "tis childish quite; 
I claim this payment as my right — 
Here — how much is the money, Sam?" 

To this most rational proposal 

The others gave such fierce negation, 

One might have fancied they were foes all, 
So hot became the altercation, 

Each in his purse his money rattling, 

Insisting, arguing, and battling. 

One of them cried at last — " A truce ! — 

This point we will no longer moot ; 
Wrangling for trifles is no use. 

And thus we '11 finish the dispute. — 
That we may settle what we three owe. 

We '11 blindfold Sam, and whichsoe'er 

He catches of us first shall bear 
The whole expenses of the trio. 
With half-a-crown (if that's enough,) 
To Sam for playing Blindman's Buff." 

Sam liked it hugely — thought the ransom, 
For a good game of fun was handsome; 
Gave his own handkerchief beside, 
To have his eyes securely tied, 
And soon began to grope and search ; 

When the three knaves, I need n't say, 
Adroitly left him in the lurch. 

Slipped down the stairs and stole away. 

Poor Sam continued hard at work ; — 

Now o'er a chair he gets a fall ; 
Now floundering forwards with a jerk, 

He bobs his nose against the wall ; 



172 THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST. 

And now encouraged bj a subtle 
Fancy, that they 're near the door, 
He jumps behind it to explore, 

And breaks his shins against the scuttle. — 

Crying, at each disaster — " Drat it! 

Dano; it ! 'od rabbit it ! and rat it !" — 

Just in this crisis of his doom, 

The host, returning, sought the room ; 

And Sam no sooner heard his tread, 
Than, pouncing on him like a bruin, 
He almost shook him into ruin, 

And with a shout of laughter said — 

" By gom, I've cotched thee now, so down 
With cash for all, and my half crown !" — 

Off went the bandage, and his eyes 

Seemed to be goggling o'er his forehead, 
While his mouth widened with a horrid 

Look of agonised surprise. 

" Gull !" roared his master, " Gudgeon ! dunce ! 
Fool as you are you 're right for once, 
'Tis clear that I must pay the sum ; — 

But this one thought my wrath assuages — 
That every halfpenny shall come 

Out of your wages !" 



THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST. 

Authors of modern date are wealthy fellows; — 
'Tis but to snip his locks and follow 
Now the golden-haired Apollo 

Invoking Plutus to blow up the bellows 



THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST. 173 

Of inspiration, thej distil 
The rhymes and novels which cajole us, 

Not from the Heliconian rill, 
But from the waters of Pactolus. 



Before this golden age of writers, 

A Grub-street Garreteer existed, 
One of the regular inditers 

Of odes and poems to be twisted 

Into encomiastic verses, 

For patrons who have heavy purses. 
Besides the Bellman's rhymes, he had 
Others to let both gay and sad, 

All ticketed from A to Izzard ; 
And living by his wits, I need not add, 

The rogue was lean as any lizard. 

Like a rope-maker's were his ways. 
For still one line upon another 
He spun, and, like his hempen brother, 

Kept going backwards all his days. 

Hard by his attic lived a Chemist, 

Or Alchemist, who had a mighty 
Faith in the Elixir Vitae ; 

And though unflattered by the dimmest 
Glimpses of success, kept groping 

And grubbing in his dark vocation, 
Stupidly hoping 

To find the art of changing metals, 

And guineas coin from pots and kettles, 

By mystery of transmutation. 



174 THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST. 

Our starving poet took occasion 

To seek this conjuror's abode; 

Not with encomiastic ode, 
Or laudatory dedication, 
But with an offer to impart, 
For twenty pounds, the secret art. 
Which shoukl procure, without the pain 

Of metals, chemistry, and fire, 
What he so long; had sought in vain, 

And gratify his heart's desire. 

The money paid, our bard was hurried 

To the philosopher's sanctorum, 
Who, somewhat sublimized and flurried 

Out of his chemical decorum, 
Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his 
Crucibles, retort, and furnace, 
And cried as he secured the door, 

And carefully put to the shutter, 
" Now, now, the secret I implore : 

For God's sake speak, discover, utter !" 

With grave and solemn air the Poet 

Cried — " List — oh, list ! for thus I show it : — 

Let this plain truth those ingrates strike. 

Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave, 
That we may all have what we like. 

Simply by liking what we have !" 



THE ASTRONOMICAL ALDERMAN. 175 



THE ASTRONOMICAL ALDERMAN". 

The pedant or scholastikos became 

The butt of all the Grecian jokes ; — 
With us, poor Paddj bears the blame 

Of blunders made bj other folks ; 
Though we have certain civic sages 

Termed Aldermen, who perpetrate 

Bulls as legitimate and great. 
As any that the classic pages 

Of old Hierocles can show, 
Or Mr. Miller's, commonly called Joe. — 

One of these turtle-eating men, 
Not much excelling in his spelling, 

When ridicule he meant to brave, 
Said he was more ph. than n. 

Meaning thereby, more 'phool than nave. 
Though they who knew our cunning Thraso, 
Pronounced it flattery to say so. 
His Civic brethren to express 

His " double, double, toil and trouble," 
And bustling noisy emptiness, 

Had christened him Sir Hubble Bubble, 

This wight ventripotent was dining 
Once at the Grocers' Hall, and lining 

With calipee and calipash 
That tomb omnivorous — his paunch, 
Then on the haunch 

Inflicting many a horrid gash, 
When havhao; swallowed six or seven 



176 SOUTH-DOWN MUTTON. 

Pounds, he fell into a mood 

Of such supreme beatitude, 
That it reminded him of Heaven, 
And he began with mighty bonhomie 
To talk Astronomy. — 

" Sir," he exclaimed, between his bumpers, 
" Copernicus and Tycho-Brahe, 
And all those chaps, have had their day ; 
They 've written monstrous lies, sir, thumpers !- 
Move round the sun ? — it 's talking treason ; 
The earth stands still — it stands to reason. — 
Round as a globe ? stuff — humbug — fable ! 
It 's a flat sphere, like this here table, 
And the sun overhangs this sphere. 
Ay — just like that there chandelier." 

" But," quoth his neighbour, " when the sun 
From East to West his course has run, 
How comes it that he shows his face 
Next morning in his former place?" 
"Ho ! there's a pretty question, truly I" 
Replied our wight, Avith an unruly 

Burst of laughter and delight. 
So much his triumph seemed to please him ; 

"Why, blockhead! he goes back at night, 
And that's the reason no one sees him !" 



SOUTH-DOWN MUTTON. 

If men, when in a rage, inspected 
Before a glass, their angry features, 

Most likely they would stand corrected 
At sight of such distorted creatures ; 



SOUTH-DOWN MUTTON. 177 

So we may hold a moral mirror 

Before these myrmidons of passion. 
And make ill temper see its error, 

By gravely mimicking its feshion. 

A sober Cit of Sweeting's Alley, 

Deemed a warm man on 'Change, was what 

In temper might be reckoned hot, 
Indulging many an angry sally 
Against his wife and servants : — (this 

Is no unprecedented state 

For man and wife, when, ttte-d-tete. 
They revel in domestic bliss,) — 
But to show off his freaks before his 
Guests, was contra bonos mores. 

Our Cit was somewhat of a glutton, 
Or epicure, at least in mutton; 
Esteeming it a more delicious 
Feast, than those of old Apicius, 
Crassus' savoury symposia. 
Or even Jupiter's ambrosia. 

One day a leg arrived from Brighton, 

A true South Down legitimate, 
When he enlarged with much delight on 

The fat and grain, and shape and weight ; 
Pronounced on each a learned stricture, 
Declared the joint a perfect picture. 
And as his eye its outline followed. 

Called it a prize — a lucky hit — 

A gem — a pearl more exquisite 
Than ever Cleopatra swallowed ; 
Promulging finally, this fiat — 
"I'll dine at five, and ask Jack Wyatt." 



178 SOUTH-DOWN MUTTON. 

The cover raised, the meat he ejed 

With new enjoyment — next the cloth he 

Tucked in his button-hole, and cried, 
" Done to a tittle — brown and frothy !" 

Then seized the carving-knife, elate, 

But lo ! it would not penetrate 

The skin — (the anatomic term is 

The what-d'-ye-call ? — ay — epidermis.) 

He felt the edge — 'twas like a dump ; 

Whereat with passion-crimson" d frown, 
He reached the stair-head at a jump, 

And threw the blade in fury down, 
Ventino; unnumbered curses on 
His thoughtless lazy servant — John. 

His guest, observing this disclosure 

Of temper, threw with great composure 

The dish, with mutton, spoons and all, 

Down helter-skelter to the hall, 

Where it arrived with fearful clatter. 

" Zounds !" cried the Cit, "why, what's the matter?" 

"Nothing whatever," with a quiet 

Look and accent, answered Wyatt : 

" I hope I haven't unawares 
Made a mistake ; but when you threw 
The knife below, in such a stew, 

I thought you meant to dine down stairs I" 



EVENING. 179 



EVENING: AN ELEGY. 

BY A POETICAL CABMAN. 

Apollo now, Sol's carman, drives his stud 
Home to the mews that 's seated in the West, 

And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames-street 
mud. 
Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress' d.. 

So from the stands the empty carts are dragged, 
The horses homeward to their stables go, 

And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagged, 
Prepare to taste the luxury of — "Wo!" 

Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar, 

Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields, 

And Mr. Sweetman's gig is at the door, 

To take him to his house in Hackney Fields. 

Closed are the gates of the West India Docks, 
Rums, Sugars, Coffee, find at length repose. 

And I, with other careless carmen, flocks 

To the King's Head, the Chequers, or the Rose. 

They smoke a pipe — the shepherd's pipe I wakes. 
Them skittles pleases — me the Muse invites, 

They in their ignorance to di'inking takes, 

I, blessed with learning, takes a pen and writes. 



180 PATENT BROWN STOUT. 



PATENT BROWN STOUT. 

A Brewer, in a country town, 

Had got a monstrous reputation ; 
No other beer but his went down ; — 

The hosts of the surrounding station 
Engraved his name upon their mugs, 

And painted it on every shutter ; 

And though some envious folks would utter 
Hints, that its flavour came from drugs, 
Others maintained 'twas no such matter. 

But owing to his monstrous vat. 

At least as corpulent as that 
At Heidelberg — and some said fatter. 

His foreman was a lusty Black, 

An honest fellow ; 
But one who had an ugly knack 
Of tasting samples as he brewed. 

Till he was stupefied and mellow. 
One day, in this top-heavy mood, 
Having to cross the vat aforesaid, 

(Just then with boiling beer supplied,) 
O'ercome with giddiness and qualms, he 
Reeled — fell in — and nothing more said, 
But in his favourite liquor died, 

Like Clai'ence in his butt of JNIalmsey. 

In all directions round about 

The negro absentee was sought ; 

But as no human noddle thought 
That our Fat Black was now Brown Stout, 
They settled that the rogue had left 
The place for debt, or crime or theft. 



PATENT BROWN STOUT. 181 

Meanwhile the beer was, day hj day, 
Drawn into casks and sent away, 

Until the lees flowed thick and thicker ; 
When lo ! outstretched upon the ground, 
Once more their missuig friend they found, 

As they had often done —in liquor. 

" See !" cried his moralizing master, 

"I always knew the fellow drank hard, 
And prophesied some sad disaster ; 
His fate should other tipplers strike : 
Poor Mungo ! there he welters, like 

A toast at bottom of a tankard!" 
Next morn a publican, whose tap 

Had helped to drain the vat so dry, 
Not having heard of the mishap. 

Came to demand a fresh supply, 
Protesting loudly that the last 
All previous specimens surpassed. 
Possessing a much richer (/usto 
Than formerly it ever used to. 
And begging, as a special favour, 
Some more of the exact same flavour. — 
" Zounds !" cried the Brewer, "that 's a task 
More difficult to grant than ask : — 
Most gladly would I give the smack 

Of the last beer to the ensuing, 
But where am I to find a Black, 

And boil him down at every brewing?" 



182 YORK KIDNEY POTATOES. 



YORK KIDNEY POTATOES. 

One Farmer Giles, an honest clown 
From Peterborough, had occasion 

To travel up to London town, 
About the death of a relation, 

And wrote, his purpose to explain, 

To cousin Jos. in Martin's lane ; 

Who quickly sent him such an answer, as 
Might best determine him to dwell 
At the Blue Boar — the Cross — the Bell, 

Or some one of the caravanseras 

To which the various coaches went — 

All which, he said, were excellent. 

Quoth Giles, " I think it rather odd he 
Should write me thus, when I have read 
That London hosts will steal at dead 
Of night, to stab you in your bed. 

Pocket your purse, and sell your body ; 

To 'scape from which unpleasant process, 

I'll drive at once to cousin Jos.'s." 

Now cousin Jos. (whose name was Spriggs) 
Was one of those punctilious prigs 

Who reverence the conime il faut ; 
Who deem it criminal to vary 
From modes prescribed, and thus ' ' Monstrari 

Pretereuntium digito." 

Conceive him writhing down the Strand 
With a live rustic in his hand. 
At once the gaper and gapee ; 



YORK KIDNEY POTATOES. 183 

And pity his unhappy plight, 
Condemned when, tete-ii-tete, at night 
To talk of hogs, nor deem it right 
To show his horrible ennui. 

Jos. was of learned notoriety, 

One of the male Blue-stocking clan, 

Was registered of each Society, 
Royal and Antiquarian ; 

Took in the Scientific Journal, 

And wrote for Mr. Urban's Mag. 

(For fear its liveliness should flag,) 

A thermometrical diurnal, 

With statements of old tombs and churches, 

And such unreadable researches. 

Wearied to death, one Thursday night, 
With hearing our agrarian wight 

Prose about crops, and farms and dairies, 
Spriggs cried — "A truce to corn and hay — 
Somerset House is no great way, 

We '11 go and see the Antiquaries." — 

"And what are they?" inquired his guest : — 
"Why, sir," said Jos., somewhat distress' d 

To answer his interrogator — 
" They are a sort — a sort — a kind 

Of commentators upon Nature." — 
"What, common 'tatoes !" Giles rejoin' d, 

His fist upon the table dashing: 
" Take my advice — don't purchase one, 
Not even at a groat a ton, — 

None but York kidneys does for mashing." 



184 THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH. 



THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH. 

One of the Kings of Scanderoon, 

A royal jester, 
Had in his train a gross buffoon, 

Who used to pester 
The court with tricks inopportune, 
Venting on the hiojhest folks his 
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. 

It needs some sense to play the fool ; 

Which wholesome rule 
Occurred not to our jackanapes. 

Who consequently found his freaks 
Lead to innumerable scrapes, 

And quite as many kicks and tweaks, 
Which only seemed to make him faster 
Try the patience of his master. 

Some sin at last beyond all measure, 
Incurred the desperate displeasure 

Of his serene and raging highness : 
Whether the wag had twitched his beard, 
Which he was bound to have revered. 

Or had intruded on the shyness 
Of the seraglio, or let fly 
An epigram at royalty, 
None knows — his sin was an occult one ; 
But records tell us that the sultan, 
Meaning to terrify the knave, 

Exclaimed — " 'Tis time to stop that breath \ 
Thy doom is sealed ; — presumptuous slave ! 

Thou stand'st condemned to certain death. 



LAUS ATRAMENTI. 185 

Silence, base rebel ! — no replying ! — 
But such is mj indulgence still, 
That, of mj own free grace and will, 

I leave to thee the mode of dying." 

"Thy royal will be done — 'tis just," 
Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust ; 

" Since my last moments to assuage, 
Your majesty's humane decree 
Has deigned to leave the choice to me, 

I'll die, so please you, of old age." 



LAUS ATRAMENTI, 
Or the Praisk of Blacking. 



A KEW SONG. 



Our Sires were such pedagogue blocKheads of yore, 

That they sent us to college instruction to seek, 
Where we bothered our brains with pedantical lore. 

Law, Logic, and Algebra, Latin and Greek ; 
But now, wiser grown, leaving learning alone. 
And resolving to shine by a light of our own, 
Our cares we transfer from the head to the foot, 
Leave the brain to be muddied, and polish the boot. 

On the banks of the Isis, ye classical fools. 

Who with Lycophron's crabbedness puzzle your ear, 
And ye who learn logaiithmetical rules 

At Cambridge, from tables of Baron Napier, 
Renounce Aristotle, and take to the bottle 
That wears '• Patent Blacking" inscribed on its throttle ; 
For Napier and Greek are by few understood, 
While all can decide when your blacking is good. 



186 LAUS ATRAMENTI. 

When a gentleman dubbed by the wight of the brush, 

Which has set up your foot in Corinthian style, 
For the rest of your wardrobe you care not a rush, 

Secure of the public's distinguishing smile. 
Though your dress may be dusty, and musty, and fusty. 
You're whitewashed by blacking, and cannot be rusty ; — 
Such errors as these are but venial and small, 
People look at your boot, which atones for them all. 

And ye who are struggling your fortune to make 

By the brief or the bolus, law, commerce, or trade, 
Your pitiful schemes of ambition forsake. 

And be makers of blacking, by taunts undismayed ; 
For what is auguster than giving a lustre 
To those who without you would hardly pass muster. 
And by selling your " brilliant and beautiful jet," 
A name and a fortune together to get ? 

Day and Martin now laugh as they ride in their coach, 
Till they're black in the face as their customers' boots ; 

Warren swears that his blacking 's beyond all approach, 
Which Turner's advertisement plumply refutes ; 

They hector and huff, print, publish, and pujQF, 

And write in the papers ridiculous stuff, 

While Hunt, who was blackened by all, and run down, 

Takes a thriving revenge as he blackens the town. 

Their labels belibel each other — each wall 

With the feuds of these rivals in blacking is white ; 
But the high polished town seems to patronise all. 
And the parties get rich in each other's despite ; 
For my own part, I think I shall mix up my ink. 
In a bottle with lamp-black and beer to the brink. 
And set up at once for a shiner of shoes, 
Since I never shall shine by the aid of the muse. 



THE TWO BRACELETS. 187 



THE TWO BRACELETS. 

A Farmer General, one Monsieur B ~, 

Who dwelt in France when Louis held the throne, 

Lived like a prince from every trouble free. 
Except a wife — (the exception 's large, I own) 

For she was fat as any marchioness. 

And given to extravagance in dress. — 

One day she bought a pair of bracelets — such 
As few but royal damsels would bespeak ; 

They cost — I cannot recollect how much, 
But they were quite magnificent — unique — 

And having clasped them on, away she flies 

Off to the Opera to show her prize. 

It happened that the queen was there that night, 
Just opposite the box that Madame took, 

And on the bracelets with intense delight 

Frequently looked — or else appeared to look ; 

For she took special care to have them seen, 

As if on purpose to outvie the queen. 

Soon to the box door came a Page, attired 
In the Queen's proper livery, all in style, 

And in the name of Majesty required 
One of the bracelets for a little while, 

That by her eye she might the pattern take, 

And order some of the exact same make. 

Off went the sparkling bauble in a trice, 

While her rouged cheeks with exultation burn. 

As, bowing to the Royal party thrice, 
She patiently awaited its return ; 



188 THE TWO BRACELETS. 

But when the Queen retired, and none was sent, 
Our dame began to wonder Avhat it meant. — 

A Lord in waiting soon confirmed her fears : 
" Oh, that pretended Page I've often seen — 

A noted sharper — has been such for years. 

Madame, you're robbed — he came not from the Queen; 

I knew the rogue, and should have had him taken. 

But that he slipped away and saved his bacon.'' 

Boiling with anger, Madame called her coach, 
And drove to the Bureau de la Justice, 

Where, with loud tongue, and many a keen reproach, 
About the shameful state of the police, 

She called upon the Provost for relief, 

And bade him send his men to catch the- thief. 

Early next morn she heard the knocker's din ; 

Her heart beat high, with expectation big, 
When lo ! the Provost's Clerk was ushered in — 

A formal consequential little prig. 
Who, with a mighty magisterial air. 
Hemmed, and began his errand to declare : — 

" Madame, a man is brought to our bureau, 
On whom was found a bracelet of great cost, 

And we are all anxiety to know 

Whether or not it is the one you lost ; 

Wherefore I'll take the other, if you please, 

Just to compare, and see if it agrees." 

" Dear sir, I'm overjoyed — 'tis mine, I'm sure ; 

Such a police as ours how few can boast ! 
Here, take the bracelet — keep the rogue secure, 

I'll follow you in half an hour at most ; 
Ten thousand thanks — I hope you '11 trounce the spark, 
Open the door, there, for the Provost's Clerk !" 



MARSHAL SAXE AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 189 

Oh ! how she chuckled as she drove along, 
Settling what pangs the pilferer should feel : 

No punishment appeared to her too strong, 

Even should the wretch be broken on the wheel ; 

For what infliction could be reckoned cruel, 

To one who would purloin so rich a jewel ? 

Arrived at the bureau, her joy finds vent : 

"Well, Mr. Provost, where 's the guilty knave ^ 

The other bracelet by your clerk I sent. 

Doubtless it matches with the one you have ; 

Why, then, outstretch your mouth with such surprise. 

And goggle on me thus with all your eyes?" 

"La! bless me, Ma'am, you're finely hoaxed — good 
lack! 

I sent no clerk, no thief have we found out, 
And the important little prig in black 

Was the accomplice of the page no doubt ; 
Methinks the rascals might have left you one, 
But both your bracelets now are fairly gone I" 



MARSHAL SAXE AND HIS PHYSICL\.N. 

Fever's a most audacious varlet; — 
Now in a general's face he shakes 
His all-defying fist, and makes 

His visage like his jacket — scarlet ; 

Now o'er surrounding guards he throws 
A summerset, and never squeaks 
" An' please your Majesty," but tweaks 

The Lord's anointed by the nose. 



190 MAKSHAL SAXE AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 

With his inflammatory finger, 

(Much like the heater of an urn) 
He makes the pulses boil and burn, 
Puts fur upon the tongue, (not ermine,) 
And leaves his prey to die or linger, 
Just as the doctors may determine. 

Though this disorder sometimes seems 

Mild and benignant. 
It interferes so with our schemes, 
Imparting to our heads a dizziness, 
Just Tvhen we want them clear for business, 

That it may well be termed malignant. 

Of these inopportune attacks, 
One fiercely fell on Marshal Saxe, 
Just as his troops had opened trenches 

Before a fortress ; (what a pity !) 
Not only did it make his heart ache 
To be condemned to pill, cathartic, 
Bolus, and blister, drugs and drenches, 
But shocked his military notions. 
To make him take unwished-for potions, 

Instead of taking, as he wished — the city. 

Senac, however, his physician. 
Soon gave our invalid permission 

To be coached out an easy distance, 
First stipulating one condition — 
That whatsoe'er the when and where, 
The Doctor should be then and there, 
Lest any syncope, relapse, 
Or other unforeseen mishaps, 

Should call for medical assistance. 



MAKSHAL SAXE AND HIS PHYSICIAN. 191 

Saxe gives consent with all his heart, 

Orders the carriage in a minute, 

Whispers the coachman — mounts within it, 
Senac the same, and off they start, 
Joking, smiling, time beguiling. 

In a facetious tete-a-tete. — 
The subject of their mutual chatter is 

Nothino; to us ; — enough to state 
That Marshal Saxe at length got out 
To reconnoitre a redoubt, 
Projecting from a range of batteries. 

Left in the carriage, our physician, 
By no means relished his position, 
When he discovered they had got 
Nearly within half cannon shot; 
Wherefore he bawled, with fear half melted, 

" For God's sake move me from this spot ! — 
Doubtless they've noticed our approach. 
And, when they recognize your coach. 
Shan't I be fired at, peppered, pelted, 
(When I can neither fly nor hide) 

From some of yonder bristling masses?" 
"It's not unlikely," Saxe replied; 
"And war I know is not your trade, 
So if you feel the least afraid. 

Pull up the glasses !" 



192 STANZAS TO PUNCHINELLO. 



STANZAS TO PUNCHINELLO. 

Thou lignum-vitge Roscius, who 

Dost the old vagrant stage renew, 
Peerless, inimitable, Punchinello ! 

The Queen of smiles is quite out-done 

By thee, all-glorious king of fun, 
Thou grinning, giggling, laugh-extorting fellow ! 

At other times mine car is wrung 

Whene'er I hear the trumpet's tongue, 
Waking associations melancholic ; 

But that which heralds thee recalls 

All childhood's jojs and festivals. 
And makes the heart rebound with freak and frolic. 

Ere of thy face I get a snatch, 

Oh ! with what boyish glee I catch 
Thy twittering, cackling, bubbling, squeakuag gibber — 

Sweeter than syren voices — fraught 

With richer merriment than aught 
That drops from witling mouths, though uttered glibber. 

What way was ever known before 

To keep the circle in a roar, 
Nor wound the feelings of a single hearer ! 

Engrossing all the jibes and jokes, 

Unenvied by the duller folks, 
A harmless wit — an unmalignant jeerer. 

The upturned eyes I love to trace 
Of wonderincr mortals, when their face 
Is all alive with an expectant gladness •, 



STANZAS TO PUNCHINELLO. 193 

To mark the flickering giggle first, 
The growing grin — the sudden burst, 
And universal shout of merrj madness. 

I love those sounds to analyse, 

From childhood's shrill ecstatic cries, 
To age's chuckle with its coughing after; 

To see the grave and the genteel 

Rein awhile the mirth thej feel. 
Then loose their muscles, and let out the laughter. 

Sometimes I note a henpecked wight 

Enjoying thy marital might. 
To him a beatific beau idml ; 

He counts each crack on Judy's pate, 

Then homeward creeps to cogitate 
The difference 'twixt dramatic wives and real. 

But, Punch, thou'rt ungallant and rude, 

In plying thy persuasive wood ; 
Remember that thy cudgel's girth is fuller 

Than that compassionate, thumb-thick, 

Established wife-compelling stick, 
Made legal by the dictum of Judge Buller. 

Wlien the officious doctor hies 

To cure thy spouse, there's no surprise ; 
Thou should' st receive him with nose-tweaking 
grappling; 

Nor can we wonder that the mob 

Encores each crack upon his nob, 
When thou art feeing him with oaken sapling. 

As for our common enemy. 
Old Nick, we all rejoice to see 
The coiq) de grace that silences his wrangle ; 



194 THE PLEASANT TETE-A-TETE. 

But, lo ! Jack Ketch ! — ah, -welladay ! 
Dramatic justice claims its prey. 
And thou in hempen handkerchief must dangle. 

Now helpless hang those arms which once 

Rattled such music on the sconce ; 
Hushed is that tongue which late out-jested Yorick ; 

That hunch behind is shrugged no more, 

No longer heaves the paunch before, 
Which wagged with such a pleasantry plethorick. 

But Thespian deaths are transient woes, 

And still less durable are those 
Suffered by lignum-vitce malefactors ; 

Thou wilt return alert, alive, 

And long, oh long mayest thou survive. 
First of head-breaking and side-splitting actors ! 



THE PLEASANT TETE-A-TETE. 

The Isle of Saint Eustatia, which the Dutch 
First colonized, was governed long ago — 

(I mean inis-govemed) — by the Herr Van Gutch, 
As great a rogue as one would wish to know. 

Who should, instead of ruling at Eustatia, 

Have shared a convict's fate in Australasia. 

No excellency could the knave pretend to. 
Save in his title, which the folks about him 

Lavished upon him as an innuendo, 

Ironically meant to mock and flout him ; 

For he had proved himself in every case 

Sordid, corrupt, extortionate, and base. 



THE PLEASANT TETE-A-TETE. 105 

Lord Bacon urged that when in bribes he did err, 

Justice, but not injustice, he had sold; 
Van Gutch sold either to the highest bidder ; 

So that each criminal possessed of gold 
Became, of course, more daring and more hardened, 
Knowing beforehand that he should be pardoned. 

Our governor was in fact an island Pope, 
(But not, I ween. Pope Innocent or Pius,) 

Selling indulgences that gave full scope 
To him who fostered any lawless bias, 

To sear his conscience, so that nought should shock it, 

By purchased absolutions in his pocket. 

As he sat waiting for this odious traffic, 

Ready for hire to pardon or condemn, 
Smoking his pipe in vacancy seraphic, 

'Twixt stupid sottishness and native phlegm, 
An Englishman, named Tate, made application 
To buy a pardon by anticipation. 

"May't please your Excellency," whispered Tate, 
"I want to horsewhip, kick, and clapper-claw 

A fellow that I hold in special hate ; 

But as the knave will doubtless take the law, 

I wish beforehand to inquire the pittance 

That I must pay to purchase an acquittance." 

"That," said Van Gutch, "on circumstance must restr 
Does the man merit such a deep disgrace?" — 

" Richly; he stands recorded and confessed 
The most notorious scoundrel in the place." — 

" Nay, then, I'll not be hard in my condition : 

I promise, for ten ducats, full remission." — 



196 AN EASY KEMEDT. 

" Take them," said Tate, and threw them on the table; 

Then drew a whip prepared for the occasion, 
And laid it on as if he would disable 

His victim from all further malversation, 
So thick a storm he raised of kicks and lashes, 
With curses, sandwich-like, between the slashes. 

Cried Tate, " Your Excellency 's the convicted 
And flagrant knave to whom I made allusion. 

And this unmeasured scourging I've inflicted, 
Because your back claims lengthened retribution. 

There ! — there 's no harm done — all is honest barter : 

/'ve trimmed a scoundrel : — you have caught a Tartar." 

This said, he bowed politely and departed ; 

Hied to the shore, embarked and hoisted sail ; 
And in some half hour's space had fairly started 

From St. Eustatia with a favouring gale. 
Leaving the writhing Dutchman in a fluster 
Of anguish, rage, oaths, bullying, and bluster. 



AN EASY REMEDY. 



An honest tailor, whose baptismal 

And patronymic appellations 
Were William Button, had a dismal 

Tendency to deep potations ; 
And though, as he was over-mated, 
Like Jerry Sneak, our snip was fated 
In spite of all his hungry heavings, 
To drink the tea and coflee leavings, 
And eat cold mutton-flaps at dinner ; 
Yet sometimes the rebellious sinner, 



AN EASY REMEDY. 19T 

Asserting his marital rights, 
Would on the wages-paying nights, 
Betake him to the public-house, 
To smoke, and tipple, and carouse ; 

And as with each new dram and sip he 
Still more and more pot-valiant grew, 
At last he fairlj braved his spouse, 

Called her a vixen and a shrew, 
A Jezebel and a Xantippe ! 

Returninop home one nio-ht, our varlet 
Bold with his wife-compelling liquor, 
Rattled the knocker quick and quicker. 

When with fierce eje and face of scarlet 

His tender spouse appeared, and shrilly 

Vented reproaches on her Willy. 

*' So, Jackanapes, you've come at last! 

No doubt the evening has been passed 

In tippling purl, you drunken sot, 

Mulled ale and amber, hot and hot ; 

While your poor wife is left to slave. 
And drink cold water from the can. 

Cold water, ye remorseless knave !" 

" Cold I" cried the husband, who began 

In turn to wrangle and to storm it — 

" Cold ! ye poor lazy slattern ; — cold ! 

Then why, ye good-for nothing scold, 

Why don't you warm it?" 



198 MADAME TALLEYRAND 



MADAME TALLEYRAND AND THE TRAVELLER. 

The famous Talleyrand, who knew 

The secret of avoiding execution, 
And kept his head upon his shoulders, through 

All the convulsions of the Revolution, 
When heads were cropped bj the prevailing powers, 

Like cauliflowers, 
Till they themselves endured the keen 
Infliction of the Guillotine, 
And made way for another faction, 
To undergo the same reaction : — 
This Talleyrand possessed a wife, 
Selected in his humbler life — 

A rich bourgeois of homely breeding, 
Neither bas bJeit, nor fenime savantc, 
But rather, as I freely grant. 

Deficient in her general reading. 

One day — 'twas when he stood elate, 
Napoleon's minister of state — 
Having invited to his house 

Some literati to confer 

With a great foreign traveller, 
The husband thus addressed his spouse : 

"My dear, at dinner you will meet 
A foreigner, a man of note. 
These authors like that you should quote 

From their own works ; therefore, to greet 
Our guest, suppose you learn by rote 
A sentence here and there, that when 
He prates, like other travelled men, 



AND THE TRAVELLEK. 199 

Of his exploits on land and ocean, 
You may not be completely gravelled, 

But have at least some little notion 
Of how, and when, and where he travelled. 
Take down his book, you'll find it yonder; 
Its dull contents you need not ponder ; 

Read but the headings of the chapters, 
Refer to them with praise and wonder, 

And our vain guest will be in raptures." 

Mi^dame, resolved to play her part 
Seas to win the stranger's heart, 
Stidied the book; but far from dull, 
Ste found it quite delightful ; — full 
Oi marvellous adventures, fraught 
"With perilous escapes, which wrought 
S( deep an interest in her mind, 
Sie really was surprised to find, 
/s to the dinner-room she tripped, 
How rapidly the time had slipped. 

^he more to flatter and delight her, 

When at the board she took her place, 
The famous traveller and writer 

Was seated by her side ; — the grace 
Vas hardly said, or soup sent round, 

'Ere with a shrug and a grimace, 
Eiger to show her lore profound, 
A la Frangaise, she raised her eyes, 
Aid hands, and voice, in ecstacies — 
"E^/i, Mons'eur Robinson, man Diezi^ 
Viild un conte merveilleux ! 
Al, par exetnple ! it appals 

The mind to think of your attacks 



200 PROJECTS AND COMPANIES. 

On those terrific cannibals — 

Those horrid savages and blacks, 
Who, if they once had gained the upper 
Hand, had eaten you for supper, 
And so prevented your proceeding 
With that sweet book I've just been reading. 

Mais, quel bonheur ! to liberate 
Poor Friday from the murderous crew, 

And gain in your deserted state, I 

So lonely and disconsolate 
A servant and companion too !" 

The visitants were all astounded ; 
The stranger stared aghast, dumfounded ; 
Poor Talleyrand blushed red as flame, 
Till having catechised the dame. 
The mystery was quickly cleared ; 
The simple woman it appeared, 
Instead of the intended book 
In which she had been urged to look, 
From the same shelf contrived to take 
Robinson Crusoe by mistake ! 



PROJECTS AND COMPANIES. 

" Some were condensing air into a dry tangible substance by extracfng the 
nitre, and letting the aqueous or fluid particles percolate ; others eofteningmarble 
for pillows and pincushions ; others petrifying the hoofs of a liviug horsjto pre- 
serve them from foundering." — Gulliver's Travels. 

A Nation's wealth that overflows. 
Will sometimes in its course disclose 

Fantastical contortions : 
'Tis like the rising of the Nile, 
Which fats the soil, but breeds the while 

Strange monsters and abortions. 



PROJECTS AND COMPANIES. 201 

Better our superflux to waste 

On peaceful schemes, howe'er misplaced, 

Than war and its abuses ; 
But better still if he could guide 
And limit the Pactolian tide, 

To salutary uses. 

Our sires, poor unambitious folks ! 
Had but an individual hoax, 

A single South-sea bubble : 
Each province oui^ delusion shares, 
From Poyais down to Buenos- Ayres — 

To count them is a trouble. 

The gold that 's sent out ready made 
To the new world, must be repaid 

By help of Watt and Boulton, 
Who from their mines, by aid of pumps, 
Will raise up ore, and lumps, and dumps, 

Whence sovereigns may be molten ! 

Others, not roaming quite so far, 
In stocks and bonds Peninsular, 

Find all their treasure vanish 5 
Leaving a warnino; to the rash, 
That the best way to keep their cash, 

Is not to touch the Spanish. 

Gilded by Eldorado dreams. 

No wonder if our foreign schemes 

Assume a tint romantic ; 
But even at home, beneath our eyes, 
What ignes fatui arise, 

Extravagant and antic ! 



202 PROJECTS AND COMPANIES. 

Bridges of iron, stone, and -wood, 
Not only, Thames, bestride thy flood, 

As if thou wert a runnel ; 
But terraces must clog thy shore, 
While underneath thy bed we bore 

A subterranean tunnel. 

Now bursts a fiercer mania — all 
From every shire, the great, the small, 

For Railroad shares are scrambling 
Peers, paupers, countesses, their maids, 
With equal ardour ply the trades 

Of jobbing, scheming, gambling. 

Decoyed by projects wild and rash, 
Some find their rail-devoted cash 

Is lost beyond retrieval ; 
Others, who profitably sold, 
Will tell you that the age of gold 

And iron are coeval. 

With each new moon new bubbles rise, 
Each, as it flits before our eyes, 

Its predecessor smashing ; 
All at their rivals freely throw 
Their dirt, to which we doubtless owe 

The Company for washing. 

These are but weeds, the rich manure 
Of overflowing wealth is sure 

To generate the thistle : — 
They who would learn its nobler use, 
May Pope's majestic lines peruse 

That close his Fourth Epistle. 



ELEaY. 203 



ELEGY. 

TO THE MEMOBT OF MISS EMTLT KAY, COUSIN TO MISS ELLEN GEE, OF KBW, WHO 
DIED LATELY AT EWELL, AUD WAS BUKIED IN EB8EX. 

" They fool me to the top of my bent." — Shakspeaee. 

Sad nymphs of U L, U have much to cry for, 
Sweet M L E K U never more shall C ! 

S X maids ! come hither and D, o, 
With tearful I, this M T L E G. 

Without X S she did X L alway, 

Ah me ! it truly vexes 1 2 C 
How soon so D R a creature may D K, 

And only leave behind X U V E ! 

Whate'er 1 to do she did discharge, 
So that an N M E it might N D R : 

Then why an S A write ? — then why J^ 
Or with my briny tears B D U her BR? 

When her Piano-40 she did press, 

Such heavenly sounds did M N 8, that she 

Knowing her Q, soon 1 U 2 confess 
Her X L N C in an X T C. 

Her hair was soft as silk, not Y R E, 
It gave no Q, nor yet 2 P to view : 

She was not handsome ; shall I tell U Y ? 
U R 2 know her I was all S Q. 

L 8 she was, and prattling like a J ; 

How little, M L E ! did you 4 C, 
The grave should soon M U U, cold as clay. 

And you should cease to be an N T T ! 



204 Pitt's bon-mot. 

While taking T at Q with L N G, 
The M T grate she rose to put a : 

Her clothes caught fire — no 1 again shall see 
Poor M L E ; who now is dead as Solon. 

L N G ! in vain jon set at 

G R and reproach for suffering her 2 B 

Thus sacrificed ; to J L U should be brought, 
Or burnt U 2 B in F E G. 

Sweet M L E K into S X they bore, 
Taking good care the monument 2 Y 10, 

And as her tomb was much 2 low B 4, 

The J lately brought fresh bricks the walls to 1 U 
(heighten.) 



PITT'S BON-MOT. 



Though William Pitt (nick-named the Tory 
In Morris's facetious story,) 

Retains the honours of his name 

As a Debates-man, 
Who in the House of Commons, "ore 
Rotundo,^^ cried up England's glory, 

Yet as a statesman, 
Or as a financier, his fame 
May be compared to his own sinking fund, 
Which, if not quite extinct, is inoribiuid. 

Seeing this heaven-born minister's renown 

In his political capacity, 
Thus tumbling down, 

An instance of his smart dicacity, 



PITT'S BON-MOT. 205 

Ought in justice to be stated, 

In order that the reader may bestow 
Due praise on the defunct for a hon-mot, 

The only one he ever perpetrated. 

When the French threatened in flat-bottomed boats 

To come and cut our throats, 
Pitt — then Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports — held 

A meeting in the town of Dover, 

To settle, should the French come over, 
How they might best and soonest be repell'd; 

Which said assemblage, being fierce and loyal, 
Declared that England might discard her fears, 

For they themselves would promise to destroy all 
The French, if they might form a corps, the Mayor 
To be commander, and the whole to bear 
The name of Royal Dover Volunteers. 

The Premier, when the cheering ceased, 

Smiled, for he knew the dictum true, 
That greatest boasters do the least, 
And whispered to himself— "The Dover traders 

Are most insufferable gasconaders ; 

If any folks deserve an innuendo^ 
By way of a rebuke, I'm sure these men do." 

However no remark was made, 
Until the secretary reading o'er 
The rules and regulations of the corps. 

Broke off, and to the chairman said, 

" Sir, I respectfully submit 

That it were well on this occasion, 
Among our standing rules and laws, 
To insert the customary clause. 
Not to serve out of England.^'' — "Yes," said Pitt, 

" Except in case of an invasion .'" 



206 HOBBS AND DOBBS. 



HOBBS AND DOBBS. 

Adrian. — "Your jest is somewhat of the oldest, Master Giles." 
Qiles. — " Hush ! do you think I would offer a new joke, anymore than new 
wine, to your Worship?" — The Unknown. 

Love in a village, where the parties revel 
In all the neighbourly civility 
Of cheerful, social amiability, 

Is vastly pleasant ; 
But hatred in a village is the devil ! 

Because each peasant 
Is ever meeting in that narrow circle, 
The very man on whom he longs to work ill. 
How sad the pity that our beau ideal 

Is never real ; — 
That envy, hatred, jealousy, and malice, 

Should hold their chalice 
Up to the lips of rustics, who were meant 
By Nature to be innocent, 
And harmless as the household dove, 

That type of love ! 

After this pretty bit of flummery, 

Or moral sentimental proem, 

(An apt exordium to my poem,} 
I must be quick, concise, and summary, 
And without any more preparative, 

Commence my narrative. 

At Oakley, in the Western Riding 

Of Yorkshire, were two men residing, 

Named Hobbs and Dobbs, whose constant quarrels, 

Springing from rivalry in trade, 

A sort of village warfare made, 
Which sadly spoilt the people's morals, 



HOBBS AND DOBBS. 207 

Splitting them into furious factions; 

Some warmly advocating Hobbs, 
While others, both by words and actions. 

Supported Dobbs. 
And yet these foolish fellows ought 

In their two leaders to have found 
Men of strong understanding, taught 

With friendly stitches, 
To patch up, not occasion breaches, 

And mend the soles of all the rustics round, 
For they were both shoemakers, and their labours 

Should have been circumscribed to putting 
Their friends and customers, and neighbours, 

On a good footing. 

They lived, unfortunately, vis-d-vis, 

And soon began the work of emulation, 
By flaming shopboards, where in gilt 
And lackered lustre, you might see 
The symbols of their occupation. 
Much paint in blue and crimson being spilt. 
That each might be more splendid than the other, 
And win all custom from his baffled brother. 

Hobbs, who had somehow given handle 
For undeserved reproach and scandal, 

When he new-dizened out his board, 
Wrote at its foot this Latin scrap — 

^'^ Mens conscia recti,^^ which he took 

From some heraldic motto-book, 
Meaning thereby to have a slap 

At his maligners and afford 
Proof that his path he still pursued. 
Strong in a conscious rectitude. 



208 MONSIEUR LE BRUN. 

This was a source of envious dolour 

To Dobbs, who, in his first confusion, 
Knowing his rival was no scholar, 

Deduced the natural conclusion 
That ''^ conscia rectV doubtless meant 

Some article of trade, perchance, 

Some fashion just arrived from France, 

And being resolutely bent 
His hated rival to eclipse, 
He sent forthwith for Mr. Cripps, 
Painter and glazier, 

When thus ejaculated Dobbs— 
" Paint me a still more flaming board. 

Of green, and gold, and azure ; 
What ! do you think I can't afibrd 

To pay for it as well as Hobbs ? 
Be these French kickshaws what they will, 
I am resolved to beat him still, 

To which effect I 
Desire you '11 print in gold at bottom, 
(That folks may fancy I have got 'em, ) 

Men's AND women's conscia recti P^ 



MONSIEUR LE BRUN". 

Monsieur le Brun (who must not be confused 
With the great painter) jointly cultivated 

Apollo's laurel and the grape of Bacchus, 
And into mediocre verse translated. 

Or rather, as the French would say, traduced 
The odes of Flaccus. 



MONSIEUR LE BRUN. 209 

The work, I must confess, was badly done, 

For poor Le Brun, 
Still scribbling, and unable still to win 

A living for himself and wife. 
Was like a rope-maker, condemned to spin 

Long lines, yet still go backward all his life. 

Le Brun asserted that an author loses 

By quaffing with the water-drinking Muses, 

Wherefore he held in small account 
Castalia's fount. 

And not a solitary sip he 

Ever quaffed from Aganippe, 
Maintaining that champagne and other wine, 

With, now and then, a draught of liquor, 

Produced an inspiration quicker. 
As well as more delightful and divine. — 
If to his cups his couplets he had suited. 

They must have sparkled — and 'tis strange to me, 
That want of life should ever be imputed 

To poetry inspired by eau-de-vie. 

But so it was — his poems, every one, 
Were like a flintless gun, 

Which won't go off for want of fire ; 
And poor Le Brun who took to deeper drinking 
Instead of thinking, 

Sunk daily deeper in oblivion's mire. 
While swallowing compound spirits, still the faster 

He lost his own, till he became a prey 
To hypochondria ; and one disaster 

Another following, his health gave way. 
His stomach, it was said, had lost its coat, 



210 MONSIEUR LE BRUN. 

Or thrown it off, perhaps, from being hot, 
For his old trick he never had forgot, 
Of pouring ardent spirits down his throat ; 
Which daily system of potation 

Most deleterious, 
Brought fever first, then inflammation, 
When his poor wife so much his aspect shocked her, 
Called in the doctor, 

And now the case grew serious. 

Bolus, a man of fees, not feeling, 
Finding his purse was low, though high his fever, 

Bolted, but sent a priest, who, kneeling. 
Thus comforted the bibulous believer : — 
" My son, 'tis clear you have not long to live. 

So you must use this unction, 

Confess your sins with due compunction, 
And freely all your enemies forgive — 

Bestowing on them, if they 're nigh. 

The kiss of peace before you die !" 

" Kiss what I hated most — my deadliest foes ! 
Surely, good father, you impose 

A penance too revolting to be just, 
'Tis ten times worse than fasts, hair shirts, and whips; 

However, if I must, I must ; 
So put a glass of water to my lips !" 



ST. GEORGE'S PENITENTIARY. 211 



ST. GEORGE'S PENITENTIARY. 

The learned and facetious Dr. Airy 

Preached, 'tother day, a sermon so pathetic, 
For the St. George's Penitentiary, 

That it seemed just like giving an emetic 
To every purse of Christian bowels : 

Folks sobbed and blubbered 
So fast that hankerchiefs were turned to towels ; 

And the last tear seemed squeezed from out its cup- 
board. 
The Doctor smiled (within his sleeve) 

At these salt tributes to his oratory, 
Sure that the Institution would receive 

A sum redounding to his proper glory, 

From the soul- melted auditory. 

The sermon o'er, he bent his keen 

Ear to the tinklings of the plate ; — 

Alas they came with pause deliberate 
'Twixt each donation, 
"Like angel visits, few and far between," 
(I like a new quotation,) 

But, as he caught the sounds, he thought 
Each had a golden echo, which in fairness 
Made full atonement for its rareness. 

"Ay, ay," soliloquized the preacher, 
" I told them charity atoned 
For multitudes of suis ; — they 've owned 

For once the wisdom of their teacher. 
And, for their many crimes untold. 
Are domg penance with their gold," 



212 ST. GEORGE'S PENITENTIARY. 

With this auriferous impression, 

Proud and elate, 

He move towards the plate ; 
But ah ! how changed was his expression, 
When, 'stead of the expected prize, 
Nothing but shillings met his eyes. 
And those, alas ! too few in number 

Each other to encumber. 
"Ah!" cried the parson — "addle-pated 
Dolts and dunces ! when I stated, 
' Love of our species is the just 
Measure of charity, they must 
Have understood the phrase to be, 

Love of our specie.' 
Nothing but shillings, shillings still ! 

A strange vagary ! 
Now on my credit, if I had my will, 
Their Institution's title I would vary, 
Into the Twelve-FEi^iNY-tentiary.''^ 
Doctor ! 'tis my opinion humble, 
You had not any right to grumble, 
For he who in this penny age can touch 
A shilling, gets twelve times as much 
As other folks ; — I state no hoax, 
But simple fact, devoid of jokes. 
Or amphibological equivoques ; 
Yes, since the penny banner was unfurled, 
In this two-halfpenny four-farthing world, 
Have we not thousands who are willing 

To place unlimited reliance, 

For learning, news, and science, 
Upon the twelfth part of a shilling ? 
Have we not Penny Cyclopedias, 

Penny Magazines and books. 



ST. George's penitentiary. 213 

Penny Tracts, less good than tedious, 
For penitents of rueful looks. 

And penny classics that give scope 

To boys at penny schools, and misses, 
To sympathize with poor Ulysses 

And his beloved Penny-lope? 

With such economy, 
Where every cottage is a college. 
What wonder, in the march of knowledge, 

That ploughboys understand astronomy ? 
Cries Hodge — " How comes it that the sun, 

Who nightly seeks the western shore, 
Rises, as sure as any gun, 

Next morning where he was afore?" 
''Spoony!" replies a learned wight, 

" Your ignorance is truly risible ; 
He always travels back at night. 

And that 's the reason he' s immsible." 

It was a penny Latinist, who said, 
In chaos there had been a battle 
Before the days of men and cattle, 

Though not set down in Holy Writ, 
Because in Ovid he had read 

That was the time when nihil Jit. 
Such tales, (I hope that none have quizzed 'em,) 

Evince the march of penny wisdom, 

And might be told ad infinitum, 
Had we just now the time to write 'em. 



214 DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND^ 

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 

A EECENT OCCURRENCE, 

A FIRM there is, of civic fame, 

At all events of notoriety, 
(Excuse my mentioning its name,) 

Which crams the public to satiety, 
With rhyming puffs by shopmen bards, 
And huge conspicuous placards, 
Slung on the backs of men and boys, 

And hobble-de-hoys, 
Plying all day their devious courses ; 

Or stuck on the tall vans that flare 

Through every crowded thoroughfare, 
To cozen asses and to frighten horses. 

This firm's emporium or bazaar, 
Near Aldgate pump, is known afar 
By catchpenny devices manifold, 
By panes of glass worth many guineas, 
And all that may attract the ninnies 
Who think they're buying cheap, and find they're sold. 

Two clowns, one day, before the shop, 
In rustic frocks and spatterdashes, 
Besmirched with stercorapeous splashes, 
Came to a stop ; 

Not to admire the flash habiliments. 

Which a month's wear would turn to filaments; 
Not to indulge in talk domestic. 

But to decide by imprecations. 

And interchange of objurgations, 
Some unadjusted feud agrestic, 



DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 215 

Their flashing eyes and gestures furious 
Soon showed that words, howe'er injurious, 
Would not interpret what their rage meant, 
So they began a fist engagement ; 
And, in the very first attack. 
One of the rustics, reeling back. 

Against the window fell slap dash. 

Zooks ! what a crash ! 
'Twas obvious that the largest pane 
(If we may speak in Yankee strain) 

Was sent to everlasting smash. 

Away the first aggressor hurried, 

And presently was lost to sight ; 
Out rushed four shopmen, red and flurried, 

Who seized the window-breaking wight. 

Aghast and trembling with afii'ight, 
Dragged him into their shop or trap, and 
Told their master what had happened. 
" It cost ten pounds !" the latter roared; 

" Ten pounds, and you must pay them down, 
Before your liberty 's restored. 

D' ye hear? hast got the money, clown?" 

"Ten pounds!" cried Hodge, in blank dismay; 
"Lord love you, I can never pay. 
I've got ten shillings and some pence ; 

('Tis hard to make me such a loser,) 
But if they '11 cover the offence, 

Take 'em and let me go, now do, sir." 
" Blockhead ! will such a mite atone ? 

You must make good the whole disaster." 
"I've nothing else, sir, of my own; 

What more I've got belongs to master." 



216 DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 

" So you have money then? how much?" 
"Why, sir, he sent me on a job, 

To cash a check for fifty pound ; 
'Tis done, the note is in my fob, 

Wrapped in a paper, safe and sound ; 
But that, you know, I mustn't touch; 
You woukl n't bring me to disgrace, 
Wi' loss o' character and place ; 
So don't ye ax me, sir, pray don't; 
Touch it I mustn't, and I won't." 
"Your master, clown, is answerable 

For your misdeeds, whate'er they be ; 
Down with the note upon the table, 

And we '11 give change and set you free ; 
If not, prepare to go to prison." 

" Dang it!" cried Hodge, with face of woe, 

" What ca7i I do, sir, when you know 
The money isn't mine, but his'n?" 
" Stuff !" quoth the magnate of the shop; 

" Quick ! quick! let the police be called. 
And send him straight to jail." " Stop ! stop !" 

Ejaculated Hodge, appalled. 
And like a leaf of aspen shaking, 
Such was his pitiable taking, 
"Master, if I am missed, will say 
I've robbed him, and have run away. 
It can't be helped — what must be, must." 

So saying he fished up the note. 
From the deep fob in which 'twas thrust, 

And twisted like a papillote, 
Secured the change, and then departed, 
Half frightened and half broken hearted, 
Moaning and muttering, " I fegs ! 



DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 217 

How shall I ever tell my master 
About this terrible disaster ? 
I'm ruined, sure as eggs is eggs." 

Our cits, though chuckling with intense 
Enjoyment at the clown's expense, 

Had little cause for mirth, if any. 
For lo ! their banker's clerk appears 
Next day, and whispers in their eais, 

" This fifty 's forged — not worth a penny !" 

Such was the fact — our firm had lost, 
Besides the broken window's cost, 
Pounds forty at a single throw: 
What had they in return to show 
For such subtraction from their till ? 
A piece of paper, value — nil ! 

Meanwhile the fighting clowns, whose roguery 
(They were colleagues) the plot had planned, 
By which the tradesmen were trepanned. 
Changed their smock-frocks for stylish toggery. 
To Margate steamed to take their pleasure. 
And spent their forty pounds at leisure. 
10 



TBE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



JAMES SMITH. 



LONDON LYEICS. 



CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. 

For many a winter in Billiter-lane 

My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain ; 

At Christmas the family met there to dine 

On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine. 

Our bark has now taken a contrary heel, 

My wife has found out that the sea is genteel. 

To Brighton we duly go scampering down, 

For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors, 
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors, 
Our casements well fitted to stem the North wind, 
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind. 
We lodge on the Steine, in a bow-window' d box, 
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks ; 
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown — 
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time. 

The lamplighter brought us his annual rhyme, 

The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen, 

We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen 

These pastimes gave oil to Time's roundabout wheel, 

Before we began to be growing genteel : 

'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown. 

But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 



222 LONDON LYRICS. 

At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop, 
Or walk upon bricks till I'm readj to drop; 
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff, 
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff; 
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt. 
With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt. 
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown, 
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon. 
And puff up my carpet like Sadler's balloon ; 
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot, 
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut. 
At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane. 
And murmur in secret — " Oh, Billiter-lane !" 
But would not express what I think for a crown, 
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine, 
His Majesty never invites me to dine ; 
The Marquess won't speak, when we meet on the pier, 
Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here. 
If that be the case, why then welcome again 
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane. 
Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown, 
That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 



ST. JAMES'S PARK. 



'TwAS June, and many a gossip wench, 
Child-freighted, trod the central Mall ; 

I gained a white unpeopled bench, 
And gazed upon the long Canal. 



ST. JAMES'S PARK. 223 

Beside me, soon, in motley talk, 

Bojs, nursemaids sat, a varying race; 

At length two females crossed the walk, 
And occupied the vacant space. 

In years they seem'd some forty -four, 

Of dwarfish stature, vulgar mien ; 
A bonnet of black silk each wore. 

And each a gown of bombazine : 
And, while in loud and careless tones 

They dwelt upon their own concerns, 
Ere long I learned that Mrs. Jones 

Was one, and one was Mrs. Burns. 

They talked of little Jane and John, 

And hoped they'd come before 'twas dark, 
Then wondered why, with pattens on, 

One might not walk across the Park : 
They called it far to Camden-town, 

Yet hoped to reach it by-and-bye ; 
And thought it strange, since flour was down, 

That bread should still continue high. 

They said, last Monday's heavy gales 

Had done a monstrous deal of ill ; 
Then tried to count the iron rails 

That wound up Constitution hill : 
This 'larum sedulous to shun, 

I donn'd my gloves, to march away. 
When, as I gazed upon the one, 

" Good Heavens !" I cried, "'tis Nancy Gray." 

'Twas Nancy, whom I led along 
The whitened and elastic floor, 



224 LONDON LYRICS. 

Amid mirth's merry pancing throng, 
Just two-and-twentj years before. 

Though sadljr alter'd, I knew her, 

While she, 'twas obvious, knew me not ; 

But mildly said, " Good evening, sir," 
And with her comrade left the spot. 

"Is this," I cried, in grief profound, 

"The fair, with whom, eclipsing all, 
I traversed Ranelagh's bright round. 

Or trod the mazes of Vauxhall ? 
And is this all that Time can do? 

Has Nature nothing else in store? 
Is this, of lovely twenty-two, 

All that remains at forty- four ? 

" Could I to such a helpmate cling? 

Were such a wedded dowdy mine. 
On yonder lamp-post would I swing, 

Or plunge in yonder Serpentine !" 
I left the Park with eyes askance. 

But, ere I entered Cleveland-row, 
Rude Reason thus threw in her lance, 

And dealt self-love a mortal blow. 

" Time, at whose touch all mortals bow. 

From either sex his prey secures. 
His scythe, while wounding Nancy's brow. 

Can scarce have smoothly swept o'er yours; 
By her you plainly were not known ; 

Then, while you mourn the alter'd hue 
Of Nancy's face, suspect your own 

May be a little altered too." 



THE UPAS IN MARYBONE LANE. 225 



THE UPAS IN MARYBONE LANE. 

A TREE grew in Java, whose pestilent rind 
A venom distilled of the deadliest kind ; 
The Dutch sent their felons its juices to draw, 
And who returned safe, pleaded pardon bj law. 

Face-muffled the culprits crept into the vale, 
Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale ; 
How few the reward of their victory earned ! 
For ninety-nine perished for one who returned. 

Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer, 
Removed it through Holland and planted it here ; 
'Tis now a stock plant, of the genus Wolf's bane, 
And one of them blossoms in Marybone lane. 

The house that surrounds it stands first in a row, 
The doors, at right angles, swing open below ; 
And the children of misery daily steal in. 
And the poison they draw we denominate Gin. 

There enter the prude, and the reprobate boy. 
The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy. 
The serving-maid slim, and the serving-man stout, 
They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out. 

Surcharged with the venom, some walk forth erect, 
Apparently baffling its deadly effect ; 
But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives, 
And ninety-nine perish for one who survives. 
10=^ 



226 LONDON LYRICS. 

They cautious advance, with slouched bonnet and hat, 
They enter at this door, they go out at that ; 
Some bear off their burden with riotous glee, 
But most sink, in sleep, at the foot of the tree. 

Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart, 
This compound of crime, at a sovereign a quart ; 
Let gin fetch, per bottle, the price of Champagne, 
And hew down the Upas in Marybone-lane. 



STAGE WEDLOCK. 

Farren, Thalia's dear delight, 
Can I forget that fatal night 

Of grief, unstained by fiction, 
(Even now the recollection damps) 
When Wroughton led thee to the lamps 

In graceful valediction ? 

This Derby prize by Hymen won, 
Again the God made bold to run 

Beneath Thalia's steerage ; 
Sent forth a second Earl to woo, 
And captivating Brunton too. 

Exalted to the peerage. 

Awhile no actress sought his shrine ; 
When lovely Searle, in Columbine, 

Each heart held "cabined, cribbed in:" 
Her dark-blue eye, and tresses loose, 
Made the whole town dub Mother Goose 

Chef-d'oeuvre of Tom Dibdin. 



STAGE WEDLOCK. 22i 

"Hail, feathered Conjuror!" I cried, 

" September's dish, Saint Michael's pride, 

Theatric gold collector : 
I pledge thee, bird, in Circe's cup !'' — 
But Heathcote, ring in hand, ripped up 

The Capitol's protector. 

Thrice vanquished thus, on Thespian soil, 
Heart-whole awhile, from Cupid's toil 

I caught a fleeting furlough ; 
Gay's Newgate Opera charmed me then, 
But Poll J sang her requiem when 

Fair Bolton changed to Thurlow. 

These wounds some substitute might heal ; 
But what bold mortal bade O'Neil 

Renounce her tragic station ? 
Taste, talent, beauty to trepan — 
By Heaven, I wonder how the man 

Escaped assassination ! 

I felt half bent to wing my way 
With Werter, on whose table lay 

Emilia Galoti : 
Stunned, like a skater by a fall, 
I saw with unconcern Hughes Ball 

Elope with Mercandotti. 

'Tis thus that prowling round Love's fold, 
Hymen, by sufferance made bold, 

(Too bold for one of his age,) 
Presumes behind the scenes to go, 
Where only Cupid used to show 

His mythologic visage. 



228 LONDON LYKlCS. 

Would these bold suitors wield the fork, 
And dip, as sailors dip for pork, 

Or urchins at a barrow, 
First come, first take, one would not care ; 
But pick and choose was never fair 

At Eton or at Harrow. 

Gain we no safeguard from the laws? 
Contains the Marriage Act no clause 

To hush Saint Martin's steeple ; 
To bind the public's daughters sure, 
And from stage larceny secure 

Us poor play-going people ? 

No ! Eldon, all depends on thee : 
Wards of thy Court let heroines be, 

Who to stage wealth have risen ; 
And then, if lovers ladders climb. 
Contempt of Court will be their crime, 

The Fleet will be their prison. 



DOCTOR GALL. 



I SING of the organs and fibres 

That ramble about in the brains ; 
Avaunt ! ye irreverent jibers. 

Or stay and be wise for your pains. 
All heads were of yore on a level, 

One could not tell clever from dull. 
Till I, like Le Sage's lame devil. 

Unroof d with a touch every skull. 
Oh, I am the mental dissector, 

I fathom the wits of you all, 



DOCTOR GALL. 229 

Then come in a crowd to the lecture 
Of craniological Gall. 

The passions, or active or passive, 

Exposed by my magical spells, 
As busy as bees in a glass hive, 

Are seen in their separate cells. 
Old Momus, who wanted a casement 

Whence all in the heart might be read. 
Were he living, would stare with amazement 

To find what he wants in the head. 

There 's an organ for strains amoroso, 

Just under the edge of the wig, 
An organ for writing but so-so, 

For driving a tilbury gig ; 
An organ for boxers, for stoics, 
• For giving booksellers a lift, 
For marching the zig-zag heroics, 

And editing Jonathan Swift. 

I raise in match-making a rumpus, 

And Cupid his flame must impart 
Henceforth with a rule and a compass, 

Instead of a bow and a dart. 
" Dear Madam, your eye-brow is horrid ; 

And Captain, too broad is your pate ; 
I see by that bump on your forehead 

You 're shockingly dull ttte-d-tete." 

When practice has made my book plainer 
To manhood, to age, and to youth, 

I '11 build, like the genius Phanor, 
In London a palace of truth. 



230 LONDON LYRICS. 

Then fibs, ah, beware how you tell 'em, 
Reflect how pellucid the skull, 

Whose downright sincere cerebellum 
Must render all flattery null. 

Your friend brings a play out at Drury, 

'Tis hooted and damned in the pit ; 
Your organ of friendship 's all fur}'-. 

But what says your organ of wit? 
" Our laughter next time prithee stir, man, 

We don't pay our money to weep ; 
Your play must have come from the German, 

It set all the boxes asleep." 

At first, all will be in a bustle ; 

The eye Avill, from ignorance, swerve, 
And some will abuse the wrong muscle, 

And some will adore the wrong nerve. 
In love should your hearts then be sporting, 

Your heads on one level to bring, 
You must go in your nightcaps a-courting, 

As if you were going to swing. 

Yet some happy mortals, all virtue, 

Have sentiment just as they should. 
Their occiput nought can do hurt to, 

Each organ's an organ of good ; 
Such couples angelic, when mated, 

To bid all concealment retire, 
Should seek Hymen's altar bald-pated, 

And throw both their wigs in his fire. 

My system, from great A to Izzard, 
You now, my good friends, may descry, 



TABLE TALK, 231 

Not Shakspeare's Bermudean wizard 

Was half so enchanting as I. 
His magic a Tempest could smother, 

But mine the soul's hurricane clears, 
Bj exposing your heads to each other, 

And setting those heads bj the ears. 

Oh, I am the mental dissector, 

I fathom the wits of you all ; 
So here is an end to the lecture 

Of craniological Gall. 



TABLE TALK. 



To weave a culinary clue. 

When to eschew, and what to chew, 

Where shun, and where take rations, 
I sing. Attend, ye diners-out. 
And if my numbers please you, shout 

"Hear, hear!" in acclamations. 

There are who treat you once a year. 
To the same stupid set ; good cheer 

Such hardship cannot soften. 
To listen to the self same dunce. 
At the same laden table, once 

Per annum 's once too often. 

Rather than that, mix on my plate 
With men I like the meat I hate — 

Colman with pig and treacle ; 
Luttrell with ven' son-pastry join. 
Lord Normanby with orange wine. 

And rabbit-pie with Jekyll. 



232 LONDON LYRICS. 

Add to George Lambe a sable snipe, 
Corgoin with Captain Morris tripe 

By parslej-roots made denser ; 
Mix Macintosh with mack'rel, with 
Calves-head and bacon Sidney Smith, 

And mutton-broth with Spencer. 

Shun sitting next the wight whose drone 
Bores, sotto voce, you alone 

With flat colloquial pressure ; 
Debarred from general talk, you droop 
Beneath his buzz, from orient Soup 

To occidental Cheshire. 

He who can only talk with one, 

Should stay at home and talk with none — 

At all events, to strangers. 
Like village epitaphs of yore, 
He ought to cry " Long time I bore," 

To warn them of their dangers. 

There are whose kind inquiries scan 
Your total kindred, man by man, 

Son, brother, cousin, joining, 
They ask about your wife, who's dead. 
And eulogize your uncle Ned, 

Who swung last week for coining. 

When joined to such a son of prate, 
His queries I anticipate, 

And thus my lee-way fetch up — 
" Sir, all my relatives, I vow, 
Are perfectly in health, and now 

I'd thank you for the ketchup !" 



TABLE TALK. 233 

Others there are who but retail 

Their breakfast journal, now grown stale, 

In print ere day was dawning ; 
When folks like these sit next to me, 
They send me dinnerless to tea ; 

One cannot chew while yawning. 

Seat not good talkers one next one, 
As Jacquier beards the Clarendon ; 

Thus shrouded you undo 'em ; 
Rather confront them, face to face, 
Like Holies-street and Harewood-place, 

And let the town run through 'em. 

Poets are dangerous to sit nigh ; 
You waft their praises to the sky, 

And when you think you're stirring 
Their gratitude, they bite you — (That's 
The reason I object to cats ; 

They scratch amid their purring.) 

For those who ask you if you " malt," 
Who, "beg your pardon" for the salt, 

And ape our upper grandees, 
By wondering folks can touch port wine ; 
That, reader, 's your affair, not mine ; 

I never mess with dandies. 

Relations mix not kindly ; shun 
Inviting brothers ; sire and son 

Is not a wise selection : 
Too intimate, they either jar 
In converse, or the evening mar 

By mutual circumspection. 



234 LONDON LYRICS. 

Lawyers are apt to think the view 
That interests them must interest you j 

Hence they appear at table 
Or supereloquent, or dumb, 
Fluent as nightingales, or mum, 

As horses in a stable. 

When men amuse their fellow guests 
With Crank and Jones, or Justice Best's 

Harangue in Dobbs and Ryal ! 
The host, beneath whose roof they sit, 
Must be a puny judge of wit, 

Who grants them a new trial. 

Shun technicals in each extreme ; 
Exclusive talk, whate'er the theme, 

The proper boundary passes ; 
Nobles as much offend, whose clack 's 
For ever running on Almack's, 

As brokers on molasses. 

I knew a man from glass to delf, 
Who knew of nothing but himself. 

Till checked by a vertigo ; 
The party Av^ho beheld him "floored," 
Bent o'er the liberated board, 

And cried, " Hie jacet ego." 

Some aim to tell a thing that hit 

Where last they dined ; what there was wit. 

Here meets rebuffs and crosses. 
Jokes are like trees ; their place of birth 
Best suits them ; stuck in foreign earth, 

They perish in the process. 



TABLE TALK, 235 

Think, reader, of the few who groan 
For any ailments save their own ; 

The world, from peer to peasant, 
Is heedless of your cough or gout ; 
Then pr'ythee, when you next dine out. 

Go armed with something pleasant. 

Nay, even the very soil that nursed 
The plant, will sometimes kill what erst 

It nurtured in full glory. 
Like causes will not always move 
To similar effects ; to prove 

The fact, I'll tell a story. 

Close to that spot Avhere Stuart turns 
His back upon the clubs, and spums 

The earth, a marble fixture, 
We dined ; well matched, for pleasure met, 
Wits, poets, peers, a jovial set 

In miscellaneous mixture. 

Each card turned up a trump, the glee, 
The catch went round, from eight to three, 

Decorum scorned to own us ; 
We joked, we bantered, laughed, and roared, 
Till high above the welkin soared. 

The helpmate of Tithonus. 

Care kept aloof, each social soul 

A brother hailed, Joy filled the bowl, 

And humor crowned the medley, 
Till royal Charles, roused by the fun, 
Looked toward Whitehall, and thought his son 

Was rioting with Sedley. 



236 LONDON LYRICS. 

"Gad, John, this is a glorious joke — " 
(Thus to our host his Highness spoke) — 

"The vicar -with his Nappj 
Would give an eje for this night's freak — 
Suppose we meet again next week — " 

John bowed, and was too "happy." 

The day arrived — 'twas seven — we met : 
Wits, poets, peers, the self-same set, 

Each hailed a joyous brother. 
But in the blithe and debonnau'e, 
Saying, alas ! is one affair, 

And doing is another. 

Nature unkind, we turned to Art; 
Heavens ! how we labored to be smart ; 

Zug sang a song in German : 
We might as well have played at chess ; 
All dropped as dead-born from the press 

As last year's Spital sermon. 

Ah ! Merriment ! when men entrap 
Thy bells, and women steal thy cap. 

They think they have trepanned thee. 
Delusive thought ! aloof and dumb, 
Thou wilt not at a bidding come, 

Though Royalty command thee. 

The rich, who sigh for thee ; the great. 
Who court thy smiles with gilded plate, 

But clasp thy cloudy follies : 
I've known thee turn, in Portman-square, 
From Burgundy and Hock, to share 

A pint of Port at Dolly's. 



THE POET OF FASHION". 237 

Races at Ascot, tours in Wales, 
White-bait at Greenwich ofttimes fails, 

To wake thee from thy slumbers. 
Even now, so prone art thou to fly. 
Ungrateful nymph ! thou 'rt fighting shy 

Of these narcotic numbers. 



THE POET OF FASHION. 

His book is successful, he 's steeped in renown, 
His lyric eifusions have tickled the town ; 
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace 
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker's face ; 
While, proud of Apollo, with peers tete-d-tete, 
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate. 
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain, 
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park- lane. 

Now lean-jointured widows, who seldom draw corks, 

Whose tea-spoons do duty for knives and for forks. 

Send forth, vellum-covered, a six o'clock card. 

And get up a dinner to peep at the bard : 

Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue, crown 

the cloth. 
And soup u la reine^ little better than broth : 
While, past his meridian, but still with some heat, 
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane-street. 

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits. 
Remembered by starts, and forgotten by fits. 
Now artists and actors the bardling engage, 
To squib in the journals, and write for tlie stage. 



238 LONDON LYRICS. 

Now soup a la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek, 
And chickens and tongue bow to ])ubble and squeak — 
While, still in translation employed by "The Row," 
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho. 

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon's brink. 
Tossed, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with somo ink, 
Now squab city misses their albums expand. 
And woo the worn rhymer for "something off-hand;" 
No longer with stilted effrontery fraught, 
Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought, 
And (0 what a classical haunt for a bard !) 
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge Yard. 



NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS. 

My wife and I live, comme il faut, 
At number Six in Crosby-row : 

So few our household labors, 
We quickly turn from joints and pies, 
To use two tongues and twice two eyes 

To meliorate our neighbours. 

My eye-glass, thanks to Dolland's skill, 
Sweeps up the lane to Mears's Mill, 

While, latticed in her chamber. 
My wife peeps through her window-pane, 
To note who ramble round the lane. 

And who the foot-stile clamber. 

This morn the zig-zao; man of meat 
Trotted, tray-balanced, up the street — 
We saw him halt at Sydney's : 



NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS. 239 

My wife asserts he left lamb there ; 
But I mjself can all but swear 
'Twas mutton-chops and kidneys. 

The man who goes about with urns 
Is beckoned in by Betty Burns : 

The poor girl knows no better : 
' But Mrs. Burns should have more sense ; 
That broken tray is mere pretence — 

He brings the girl a letter. 

Whether she goes up street for milk, 
Or brings home sugar, pins, or silk, 

That silly wench for ever 
Draws up, pretending at the stile 
To rest herself, while all the while 

She waits for Captain Trevor. 

The Captain, when he sees me, turns, 
Seems not to notice Betty Burns, 

And round the pond betakes him, 
Behind the stables of the Bear, 
To get the back way in ; but there 

My wife's back window rakes him. 

There go the Freaks again — but hark ! 
I hear the gate-bell ring — 'tis Bark, 

The glib apothecary, 
Who in his mortar pounds the fame 
Of every rumor- wounded dame, 

From Moll to Lady Mary. 

"Well, Mr. Bark,"—" Fve found her out." 
"Who is she?"—" Not his wife."— "No doubt." 
" 'Twas told me by his brother." 



240 LONDON LYKICS. 

"Which brother? Archibald?"— ''No, Fred., 
An old connexion." — " So I said." 
"The woman 's— " " What ?"— " His mother." 

"Who are the comers next to Blake's ?" 

"At number Four?" — "Yes." — "No great shakes: 

Sad junketings and wastings. 
I've seen them plaj in ' Days of Yore,' 
He acted Hastings in Jane Shore, 

And she Jane Shore in Hastings." 

"Pray, Mr. Bark, what party drove 
That dark-brown chariot to the Grove?" 

"The Perry's, Ma'am, wet Quakers. 
He married Mrs. Hartley Grant, 
Whose father's uncle's mother's aunt 

Lived cook at Lady Dacre's." 

But Sunday is the time, of course, 
When Gossip's congregated force 

Pours from our central chapel : 
Then hints and anecdotes increase. 
And in the Mansion-house of Peace 

Dark Discord drops her apple. 

Ope but a casement, turn a lock. 
The whole row feels the electric shock. 

Springs tilt, their blinds up throwing. 
And every ear and every eye 
Darts to one centre, to descry 

Who 's coming or who 's going. 

Thus occupied, in Crosby-row, 
We covet not the Grange or Stowe ; 
Pent in by walls and palings, 



THE IMAGE BOY. 241 



Their lordly tenants can't, like us, 
Drop in at tea-time to discuss 

Their neia-hbours' faults and failings. 



THE IMAGE BOY. 



Whoe 'er has trudged, on frequent feet, 
From Charing Cross to Ludgate-street, 

That haunt of noise and wrangle. 
Has seen, on journeying through the Strand, 
A foreign Image-vender stand 

Near Somerset quadrangle. 

His coal-black eye, his balanced walk, 
His sable apron, white with chalk. 

His listless meditation, 
His curly locks, his sallow cheeks. 
His board of celebrated Greeks, 

Proclaim his trade and nation. 

Not on that board, as erst, are seen 
A taAvdry troop ; our gracious Queen 

With tresses like a carrot. 
A milk-maid with a pea-green pail, 
A poodle with a golden tail, 

John Wesley, and a parrot ; — 

No ; far more classic is his stock ; 
With ducal Arthur, Milton, Locke, 

He bears, unconscious roamer, 
Alcmena's Jove-begotten Son, 
Cold Abelard's too tepid nun. 

And pass-supported Homer. 
11 



242 LONDON LYRICS. 

See yonder bust adorned with curls ; 
'Tis hers, the Queen who melted pearls 

Marc Antonj to wheedle. 
Her bark, her banquets, all are fled ; 
And Time, who cut her vital thread, 

Has only spared her Needle. 

Stern Neptune, with his triple prong, 
Childe Harold, peer of peerless song, 

So froHc Fortune wills it, 
Stand next the Son of crazy Paul, 
Who hugged the intrusive King of Gaul 

Upon a raft at Tilsit. 

" Poor vagrant child of want and toil! 
The sun that warms thy native soil 

Has ripened not thy knowledge ; 
'Tis obvious, from that vacant air. 
Though Padua gave thee birth, thou ne'er 

Didst graduate in her College. 

" 'Tis true thou nam'st thy motley freight; 
But from what source their birth they date, 

Mythology or history. 
Old records, or the dreams of youth, 
Dark fable, or transparent truth, 

Is all to thee a mystery. 

" Come tell me, Vagrant, in a breath, 
Alcides' birth, his life, his death, 

Recount his dozen labours : 
Homer thou know'st ; but of the woes 
Of Troy thou 'rt ignorant as those 

Dark Orange-boys thy neighbours." 



THE IMAGE BOY. 243 

'Twas thus, erect, I deigned to pour 
My shower of lordly pity o'er 

The poor Italian wittol, 
As men are apt to do to show 
Their vantage-ground o'er those who know 

Just less than their own little. 

When lo, methought Prometheus' flame 
Waved o'er a bust of deathless fame. 

And woke to life Childe Harold : 
The Bard aroused me from my dream 
Of pity, alias self-esteem, 

And thus indignant carolled : 

" thou, who thus, in numbers pert 
And petulant, presum'st to flirt 

With Memory's Nine Daughters : 
Whose verse the next trade- winds that blow 
Down narrow Paternoster-row 

Shall whelm in Lethe's waters : 

" Slight is the difference I see 
Between yon Paduan youth and thee ; 

He moulds, of Paris plaster, 
An urn by classic Chantrey's laws — 
And thou a literary vase 

Of would-be alabaster. 

"Were I to arbitrate betwixt 
His teiTa cotta, plain or mixed, 

And thy earth-gendered sonnet, 
Small cause has he th' award to dread : — 
Thy images are in the head, 

And his, poor boy, are on it !" 



244 LONDON LYRICS. 



THE LEES AND THE LAWSONS. 

If you call on the Lees, north of Bloomsbury-square, 
They welcome you blandly, they proffer a chair, 

Decorously mild and well bred : 
Intent on their music, their books, or their pen, 
Employment absorbs their attention, and men 

Seem totally out of their head. 

If you call on the Lawsons, in Bloomsbury-place, 
No fabric of order you seem to deface, 

No sober arrangement to break : 
They lounge on the sofa, their manners are odd, 
Men drop in at luncheon, and give them a nod, 

Then run to the sherry and cake. 

The house of the Lees has an orderly air. 
It sets to its brethren of brick in the square 

A model from attic to basement : 
The knocker is polished, the name is japanned, 
The step, unpolluted, is sprinkled with sand, 

White bhnds veil the drawing-room casement. 

The house of the Lawsons is toute autre chose^ 
It certainly proffers no air of repose, 

For one of the girls always lingers 
Athwart the verandah, alert as an ape. 
To note to her sisters the forthcoming gape, 

Be it monkeys or Savoyard singers. 

Whenever the Lees to the theatre stray, 
The singers who sing, and the players who play, 
Attentive, untalkative, find 'em : 



THE LEES AND THE LAWSONS. 245 

With sound to allure them, or sense to attract, 
Thej rarely turn round, till the end of the act, 
To talk with the party behind 'em. 

The Lawsons are bent on a different thing : 
Miss Paton may warble, Miss Ayton may sing, 

To listeners tier above tier : 
They heed not song, character, pathos, or plot, ^ 

But turn their heads back, to converse with a knot 

Of dandies who lounge in the rear. 

In life's onward path it has happened to me 
With many a Lawson and many a Lee, 

In parties to mix and to mingle : 
And somehow, in spite of manoeuvres and plans, 
I've found that the Lees got united in banns, . 

While most of the Lawsons keep single. 

Coy Hymen is like the black maker of rum — 
" De more massa call me de more I vont come," 

He flies from the forward and bold : 
He gives to the coy what he keeps from the kind ; 
The maidens who seek him, the maidens who find, 

Are cast in an opposite mould. 

Ye female gymnasians^ who strive joint by joint, 
Come give to my Lawsons some lessons in point, 

(They can't from their own sex refuse 'em ;) 
Whenever you plan an athletic attack, 
You know, from experience, to jump on man's back 

Is not the right road to his bosom. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



COUNTRY COMMISSIONS. 

Cousin Charles, please to send down to-morroWj 

At eight, by the Scarborough mail, 
Claudine, or the Victim of Sorrow, 

Don Juan, two mops, and a pail. 
As soon as you enter Hyde Park, it 

Must suit you to call in Gough-square ; 
And when you 're in Leadenhall Market, 

Buy a rattle at Bartl'my Fair. 

Do give the enclosed to George Colburn, 

The tinman — he's sure to be found — 
He lives in Southampton-street, Holburn. 

Or else near the Islington Pound. 
Papa wants a hamper of claret 

Like that which he smuggled from Tours, 
Aunt Agatha wants a poll parrot — 

Perhaps you could let her have yours. 

We are dying for Lord Byron's sonnet, 

Tell Jones I have sent him a pig, 
Mamma wants a new sarcenet bonnet, 

The size of the head of our gig. 



COUNTRY COMMISSIONS. 247 

Could you match the enclosed bit of ribbon — 

Do buy Tom an ounce of rape-seed ; 
When you send the third volume of Gibbon, 

Do send Jack a velocipede. 

Some shears that old Dobbin will "well dock, 

A mouse-trap, a gold-headed cane, 
A bottle of Steers' opedeldoc, 

Three ounces of alicampane, 
Gold wire from Duke's Head, Little Britain, 

A purple tin kaleidescope, 
A tea-tray, a tortoise-shell kitten, 

Rob Roy, and a long bit of soap. 

Six ounces of Bohea from Twining' s, 

A peg-top, a Parmesan cheese, 
Some rose-coloured sarcenet for linings, 

A stew-pan, and Stevenson's Glees ; 
A song ending " Hey noni noni," 

A chair with a cover of chintz, 
A mummy dug up by Belzoni, 

A skein of white worsted from Flint's. 

ANSWER. 

Can I pocket St. Paul's like an apple, 

Take Waterloo bridge in my teeth, 
Mount astride the Green Dragon, Whitechapel, 

And fight all the butchers beneath ? 
Can I eat Bank directors by dozens. 

Put the national debt in a dish ? 
If I cannot my dear country cousins, 

I cannot do half what you wish ! 



248 THE MAMMOTH. 



THE MAMMOTH. 

Soon as the deluge ceased to pour 
The flood of death from shore to shore, 

And verdure smiled again, 
Hatched amidst elemental strife, 
I sought the upper realms of life, 

The tyrant of the plain. 

On India's shores my dwelling lay — 
Gigantic, as I roamed for prey, 

All nature took to flight ! 
At my approach the lofty woods 
Submissive bowed, the trembling floods 

Drew backward with afii-ight. 

Creation felt a general shock : 

The screaming eagle sought the rock. 

The elephant was slain ; , 

Affrighted, men to caves retreat, 
Tigers and leopards licked my feet. 

And owned my lordly reign. 

Thus many moons my course I ran, 
The general foe of beast and man, 

Till on one fatal day 
The lion led the bestial train, 
And I, alas ! was quickly slain, 

As gorged with food I lay. 

"With lightning's speed the rumour spread — 
" Rejoice ! rejoice ! the Mammoth 's dead," 
Resounds from shore to shore. 



THE MAMMOTH. 24:\f 

Pomona, Ceres, thrive again, 
And, laughing, join the choral strain, 
"The Mammoth is no more." 

In earth's deep caverns long immured, 
Mj skeleton, from view secured, 

In dull oblivion lay ; 
Till late, with industry and toil, 
A youth subdued the stubborn soil, 

And dragged me forth to day. 

In London now my body 's shown, 
And while the crowd o'er every bone 

Incline the curious head, 
They view my form with wondering eye, 
And pleased in fancied safety, cry — 

"Thank Heaven, the monster's dead." 

mortals, blind to future ill, 

My race yet lives, it prospers still — 

Nay, start not with surprise : 
Behold, from Corsica's small isle, 
Twin-born in cruelty and guile, 

A second Mammoth rise ! 

He seeks, on fortune's billows borne, 
A land by revolution torn, 

A prey to civil hate : 
And seizing on a lucky time 
Of Gallic frenzy, Gallic crime, 

Assumes the regal state. 

Batavian freedom floats in air. 
The patriot Swiss, in deep despaii', 
Deserts his native land ; 



250 SONNETS IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE. 

While haughty Spain her monarch sees 
Submissive wait, on bended knees, 
The tyrant's dread command. 

All Europe o'er, the giant stalks, 
Whole nations tremble as he walks, 

Extinct their martial fire ; 
The Northern Bear lies down to rest, 
The Prussian Eagle seeks her nest, 

The Austrian bands retire. 

Yet, ah ! a storm begins to lower, 
Satiate with cruelty and power, 

At ease the monster lies ; 
Lion of Britain, led by you, 
If Europe's sons the fight renew, 

A second Mammoth dies.* 



SONNETS IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE. 

Absence and Presence, born of elder Night, 
O'er common mortals hold a common sway ; 
Absence alights when Presence takes her flight, 
Presence presides when Absence is away. 
O'er life's dull ocean, borne with steady sails, 
Alike, as brother oft resembles brother ; 
By cold indifference poised in equal scales, 
The one may well pass current for the other. 
But (thee once known) what heart can ever know, 
Oblivion, weed that rots on Lethe's wharf? 

* This poem, admirably translated into Frencli by M. Peltier, was 
widely circulated upon the Continent. — 



PHCEBE, OR MY GRANDMOTHER WEST. 251 

Presence dispensing joj, and Absence woe, 
This soars a giant, and that droops a dwarf. 
Oh ! disproportioned size of joy and grief. 
Absence, how endless long, and Presence brief ! 



Thou 'It still survive, when I to time shall bow, 

When mj leaves scattered lie, thy rose will bloom; 

Thou 'It walk the earth, alert as thou art now, 

When I am mouldering in the silent tomb; 

My face, my form, traced by the graver's tool. 

Thou holdest : hold them then ; and, with a sigh. 

When shadowing night shall o'er the welkin rule, 

Bethink thee, musing, of the days gone by. 

Be not too happy, or my jealous sprite 

Shall deem thy laughter light, thy spirits folly ; 

But, gazing on my portraiture, unite 

Serene content with sober melancholy. 

And cast, in thy beloved sobriety, 

Some thoughts on him whose all thoughts dwelt on thee. 



PHCEBE, OR MY GRANDMOTHER WEST. 

Ah, Phoebe ! how slily, love's arrow to barb, 
You 've stolen down stairs in your grandmamma's garb ! 
Your ringlet-graced head, and your stomacher flat, 
The cut of your cloak, and the bend of your hat, 
Your flounce and your furbelow, all have confessed 
Your masquerade likeness to Grandmamma West. 

That necklace of coral I've seen all afloat 

(Ere wrecked by old Time) on your grandmamma's throat; 



252 TIME AND LOVE. 

Her hands, alike gazed on hj dandies and boors, 
I've seen her fold often as now you fold yours ; 
While crowds hav.' around her at Ranelagh press'd, 
Allured by the beauty of Grandmamma West. 

Hold, Phoebe ! thou archest of heart-stealing girls. 

Thy hat, and thy cloak, and thy lace, and thy pearls, 

May not be cast oflf, till thy painter shall trace 

The raiment antique, and thy juvenile face, 

With the ringlets and flounces that once gave a zest 

To the now waning charms of your Grandmamma West. 

'Tis done; now begone, and remember that Time, 
By steps slow and sure is corroding your prime. 
An aera shall come, spite of hopes and of fears, 
When Phoebe shall be what she now but appears, 
A tidy old woman arrayed in her best, 
A counterfeit true of her Grandmamma West. 



TIME AND LOVE. 



An artist painted Time and Love ; 
Time with two pinions spread above. 

And Love without a feather ; 
Sir Harry patronized the plan, 
And soon Sir Hal and Lady Ann 

In wedlock came together. 

Copies of each the dame bespoke : 
The artist, ere he drew a stroke. 

Reversed his old opinions, 
And straightway to the fair one brings 
Time in his turn devoid of wings, 

And Cupid with two pinions. 



PROVEKBS. 253 

"What blunder's this?" the lady cries, 
" No blunder, Madam," he replies, 

" I hope I 'm not so stupid. 
Each has his pinions in his day, 
Time, before marriage, flies away, 
. And, after marriage, Cupid." 



PROVERBS. 



My good Aunt Bridget, spite of age, 
Versed in Valerian, Dock, and Sage, 

Well knew the virtues of herbs ; 
But Proverbs gain'd her chief applause, 
"Child," she exclaim'd, "respect old saws. 

And pin your faith on Proverbs." 

Thus taught, I dubb'd my lot secure ; 
And, playing long-rope, " slow and sure," 

Conceived my movement clever. 
When lo ! an urchin by my side 
Push'd me head foremost in, and cried 

" Keep Moving, " " Now or Never." 

At Melton next I join'd the hunt. 
Of bogs and bushes bore the brunt. 

Nor once my courser held in ; 
But when I saw a yawning steep, 
I thought of " Look before you leap," 

And curb'd my eager gelding. 

While doubtful thus I rein'd my roan. 
Willing to save a fractured bone, 
Yet fearftil of exposure ; 
11* 



254 THE YEAR TWENTY-SIX. 

A sportsman thus my spirit stirred — 
"Delays are dangerous," — I spurred 
Mj steed, and leaped the enclosure. 

I ogled Jane, who heard me say, 
That " Rome was not built in a day," 

When lo! Sir Fleet O'Grady 
Put this, my saw, to sea again, 
And proved, by running off "with Jane, 

" Faint heart ne'er won fair Lady." 

Aware "New brooms sweep clean," I took 
An untaught tyro for a cook, 

(The tale I tell a fact is;) 
She spoilt my soup : but, when I chid. 
She thus once more my work undid, 

" Perfection comes from Practice." 

Thus, out of every adage hit, 
And, finding that ancestral wit 

As changeful as the clime is : 
From Proverbs, turning on my heel, 
I now cull Wisdom from my seal, 

Whose motto's " Ne quid nimis." 



THE YEAR TWENTY-SIX. 

'Tis gone with its toys and its troubles. 
Its essays on cotton and corn, 

Its laughing-stock company bubbles, 
Its Cherry-ripe — (music by Horn.) 



THE TEAR TWENTY-SIX. 255 

'Tis gone, with its Catholic Question, 
Its Shiels, its O'Connells, and Brics: 

Time, finding it light of digestion, 
Has swallow' d the Year Twenty-six. 

I've penned a few private mementoes 

Of schemes that I meant to eflfect. 
Which, sure as I hobble on ten toes, 

I vow'd I'd no longer neglect. 
"My wits," I exclaim' d, " are receding, 

'Tis time I their energies fix : 
I'll write the town something worth reading, 

To finish the Year Twenty-six." 

My pamphlet, to tell Mr. Canning 

The Czar has an eye on the Turk ; 
My treatise, to show Mr. Manning 

The way to make currency work : 
My essay, to prove to the nations 

(As sure as Avax-candles have wicks) 
Greek bonds are not Greek obligations — 

Were planned in the Year Twenty -six. 

I sketched out a novel, where laughter 

Should scare evangelic Tremaine, 
Shake Brambletye House off its rafter, 

And level Tor Hill with the plain. 
Those volumes, as grave as my grandam, 

I swore with my book to transfix : 
'Twas called the New Roderick Random, 

And meant for the Year Twenty-six. 

My play had — I'd have the town know it — 
A part for Miss Elinor Tree ; 



256 THE YEAR TWENTY-SIX. 

At Drurj I meant to bestow it 

On Price, the gigantic lessee. 
Resolved the fourth act to diminish, 

('Tis there, I suspect, the plot sticks,) 
I solemnly swore that I'd finish 

The fifth, in the Year Twentj-six. 

But somehow I thought the Haymarket 

Was better for hearing by half, 
To people who live near the Park it 

Affords the best home for a laugh. 
"There Liston," I muttered, " has taught 'em 

Mirth's balm in their bitters to mix : 
I'll write such a part in the autumn 

For him — in the Year Twenty-six !" 

I meant to complete my Italian — 

('Tis done in a twelvemonth with ease,) 
Nor longer, as mute as Pygmalion, 

Hang over the ivory keys. 
I meant to learn music, much faster 

Than fellows at Eton learn tricks : 
Vercellini might teach me to master 

The notes, in the Year Twenty-six. 

'Tis past, with its corn and its cotton, 

Its shareholders broken and bit : 
And where is my pamphlet ? forgotten. 

And where is my treatise ? unwrit. 
My essay, my play, and my novel, 

Like so many Tumble-down Dicks, 
All, all in inanity grovel — 

Alas ! for the Year Twenty-six. 



THE TABLET OF TRUTH. 257 

My Haymarket farce is a bubble, 

Mj Bocca Romana moves stiff, 
I've spared Vercellini all trouble, 

I do n't even know the bass cliff. 
My brain has (supine anti-breeder) 

Neglected to hatch into chicks 
Her offspring — Pray how, gentle reader, 

Thrive you for the Year Twenty-six ? 

George Whitfield, whom nobody mentions 

Now Irving has got into fame. 
Has paved with abortive intentions 

A place too caloric to name. 
I fear, if his masonry 's real. 

That mine have Macadamized Styx : 
So empty, cloud-capped, and ideal. 

My plans for the Year Twenty-six ! 

Past Year ! if, to quash all evasions, 

Thou 'dst have me with granite repair, 
On good terra firma foundations, 

My castles now nodding in air : 
Bid Time from my brow steal his traces 

(As Bardolph abstracted the Pix), 
Run back on his road a few paces. 

And make me— like thee — Twenty-six. 



THE TABLET OF TRUTH. 

Sit down, Mr. Clipstone, and take 

These hints, while my feelings are fresh; 

My uncle. Sir Lionel Lake, 

Has journeyed the way of all flesh. 



258 THE TABLET OF TRUTH. 

His heirs would in marble imprint 
His merits aloft o'er his pew — 

Allow me the outline to hint — 

To finish, of course, rests with you. 

And first, with a visage of woe, 

Carve two little cherubs of love, 
Lamenting to lose one below 

They never will look on above. 
And next, in smooth porphyry mould, 

(You cannot well cut them too small) 
Two liliput goblets, to hold 

The tears that his widow lets fall. 

Where charity seeks a supply 

He leaves not his equal behind : 
I'm told there is not a dry eye 

In the School for the Indigent Blind. 
Then chisel (not sunk in repose, 

But in alto reliefs to endure,) 
An orderly line of round O's 

For the money he gave to the poor. 

I league not in rhyme with the band 

Who elevate sound over sense : 
Where Vanity bellows "expand," 

Humility whispers "condense." 
Then mark, with your mallet and blade, 

To paint the defunct to the life, 
Four stars for his conduct in trade. 

And a blank for his love of his wife. 

'Tis done — to complete a design, 
In brevity rivalling Greece, 



CLUB LAW. 259 

Imprint me a black dotted line 

For the friends who lament his decease. 

Thus lettered with merited praise, 

Ere long shall our travel-fraught youth 

Turn back from the false Pere la Chaise 
.To gaze on my Tablet of Truth. 



CLUB LAW. 



Dear Tom, since by a lucky knack, 
Your white balls overtop the black. 

And counter-canvass smother. 
Let me your mental garment darn. 
As old Polonius spun a yarn 

To fair Ophelia's brother. 

" Be thou familiar," should you see 
At dinner an austere M.P. 

Just as his glass he's filling, 
Accost him — whatsoe'er his rank - 
With " Sir, I'd thank you for a frank," 

And save your aunt a shilling. 

" Give every man (of wealth) thine ear;" 
Smile when he smiles, his sallies cheer, 

Out his connexions ferret ; 
Or roar his catch, or sing his psalm : 
But, Thomas, " never dull thy palm" 

By shaking hands with Merit. 

At a house-dinner show your fun — 
Mount a horse-laugh, quiz, banter, pun, 
Be saucy as a squirrel ; 



260 CLUB LAW. 

But if your foe possess a pair 
Of Manton's polished pops, "beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel." 

If a roast fillet deck the board, 
With bacon, you can well afford 

To leave the viand per se ; 
But if a haunch supplant the veal, 
"Grapple" the joint "with hooks of steel," 

And carve it without mercy. 

" Apparel oft proclaims the man :" 
Wear, then, the richest garb you can, 

Whilst in the club a dweller ; 
And if men doubt your means and ways, 
Reverse the caveat emptor phrase. 

And cast it to the seller. 

" Take each man's censure" in good part*, — 
Pliant humility 's an art 

That copper turns to siller. 
" Be not a lender" — memories flit; 
" Nor borrower" — unless a wit 

From old Josephus Miller. 

Place on the fender both your feet ; 
When Boreas howls, complain of heat, 

And open all the windows ; 
Ring for the waiter, bang the door, 
And for your brethren care no more 

Than Tippoo cared for Hindoos. 

Never to acquiesce be seen ; 
To those who dwell on Edmund Kean, 
Talk of John Kemble's glories. 



THE SWISS COTTAGE. 261 

Dub all wbo do the civil, prigs ; 
Revile Lord Melbourne to the Whigs, 
Sir Robert to the Tories. 

And now, dear Tom, farewell ; the gale 
" Sits in the shoulder of your sail," — 

Defy disapprobation : 
For, till committee-men begin 
To ballot out^ as well as t«. 
You're safe in your location. 



THE SWISS COTTAGE. 

" Ye gastric graces of Pall Mall, 
Fish, soup, and pate, fare ye well, 

Give me some cot Helvetian, 
Thither I fain my flight would wing, 
Of clubs the abdicated kino;, 

An uncrown'd Dioclesian." 

Scarce had I thus petitioned Fate, 
When lo ! a card with lines so straight, 

Arachne seemed to rule 'em, 
Wooed me to fair Pastora's shrine — 
An invitation out to dine 

At Ivy Cottage, Fulham ! 

" 'Tis well !" I cried. " At Wilt's control 
Here Temperance will pass the bowl, 

And Health rise up the winner. 
Full well I know the classic spot — 
Swiss is the scenery, Swiss the cot. 

And Swiss, no doubt the dinner. 



262 THE SWISS COTTAGE, 

" Deal table ; cloth as smooth as silk ; 
Brown loaf; an avalanche of milk ; 

At most a brace of rabbits ; 
Cheese, hard enough to pose a shark ; 
And water, ' clear as di'mond spark,' 

To suit my Hindoo habits. 

"Six three-legg'd stools, of antique shapes 
Ripe figs ; a plate of purple grapes. 

As sweet as honeysuckles ; 
A girl to wait, of buxom hue, 
In dark-brown bodice, apron blue, 

Red hose, and silver buckles." 

Nought rose to sever lip and cup : 
I came. Had Fanny Kelly up 

The outside stair been skipping, 
With three long plaits of braided hair, 
'Twould seem the ipse locus where 

Macready pierced the pippin. 

But soon the inside put to rout 
The dreams engendered by the out; 

Chintz chairs with sofa paddings ; 
Bright stoves, at war with humid damps ; 
Pianos ; rosewood tables ; lamps, 

As brilliant as Aladdin's. 

Fish, soup, and mutton, finely dress' d, 
Adorned the board : a pleasant guest 

Was placed my right and left on ; 
With dishes lateral, endued 
With flavor to astonish Ude, 

Lucullus, or Lord Sefton. 



FIVE HUNDRED A YEAR. 263 

The partj, 'mid the sound of corks, 
(Although the bread was white ; the forks 

Were silver, not metallic,) 
Seemed not to see the joke was this. 
That, while the outside walls were Swiss, 

The feast was Anglo-Gallic. 

So, as in eastern song is shown, 
Some sable, antiquated crone, 

As wily as a bailiff. 
Leads, blindfold, on his hands and knees. 
Some youth, through alleys dark, to please 

Great Haroiin the Caliph. 

The bandage gone, a blaze of light 
Salutes his now enchanted sight; 

He views a new creation : 
Dim Bagdad totters to its fall, 
A fairy palace smiles, and all 

Is bright illumination. 



FIVE HUNDRED A YEAR. 

That gilt middle path, which the poet of Rome 

Extolled as the only safe highway to bliss ; 
That "haven" which many a poet at home 

Assures us all Guinea-bound merchantmen miss ; 
That blessed middle line. 
Which bard and divine 
In sonnet and sermon so sigh for, is mine ; — 
My uncle, a plain honest flit auctioneer, 
Walked off, and bequeathed me Five Hundred a year. 



264 FIVE HUNDRED A YEAR. 

I ne'er, if I live to the age of Old Parr, 

Can fail to remember how stared brother Bill, 
Jack bulKed, and Tom, who is now at the Bar, 
Drove post to a Proctor to knock up the will. 
Thej never could trace 
What beauty or grace 
Sir Christopher Catalogue saw in my face, 
To cut off three youths, to his bosom so dear, 
And deluge a fourth with Five Hundred a year I 

The will, though law-beaten, stood firm as a rock, 
The probate was properly lodged at the Bank ; 
Transferred to my name stood the spleen-moving stock, 
And I, in the West, bearded people of rank. 
No longer a clerk, 
I rode in the Park, 

Or lounged in Pall Mall till an hour after dark. 
I entered, what seemed then, a happy career, 
Possessed of a gig and Five Hundred a year. 

Ere long, I began to be bored by a guest, 

A strange sort of harpy, who poisoned my feast : 
He visits, in London, the folks who dwell West, 
But seldom cohabits with those who live East. 
Bar, door-chain, or key. 
Could not keep me free — 
As brisk as a bailiff in bolted Ennui 
" I'm come," he still cried, " to partake of your cheer, 
I'm partial to folks of Five Hundred a year." 

Meanwhile my three brothers, by prudence and care, 
Got onward in life, while I stuck by the wall; 

Bill opened a tea-shop in Bridgewater-square, 
And Jack, as a writer, grew rich in Bengal. 



FIVE HUNDRED A YEAR. 265 

Tom made his impressions 

Through Newgate transgressions, 

And got half the business at Clerkenwcll Sessions. 
They marched in the van, while I lagged in the rear, 
Condemned to Ennui and Five Hundred a year. 

Too little encouraged to feel self-assured, 

Too dull for retorts, and too timid for taunts ; 
By daughters and nieces I'm barely endured. 
And mortally hated by uncles and aunts. 
If e'er I entangle 
A girl in an angle, 

Up steps some Duenna, love's serpent tostrangle ; 
" Come hither ! do n't talk to that fellow, my dear, 
His income is only Five Hundred a year." 

Without tact or talents to get into ton, 

No calling to stick to, no trade to pursue : 
Thus London, hard stepmother, leaves me alone, 
With little to live on, and nothing to do. 
Could I row a life-boat, 
Make a boot or a coat. 
Or serve in a silversmith's shop, and devote 
My days to employment, my evenings to cheer, 
I'd gladly give up my Five Hundred a year. 
12 



266 CHIGWELL. 

CHIGWELL ; 

OR, " PE^TERITOS ANNOS." 

School that, in Burford's honoui'ecl time, 
Reared me to youth's elastic prime 

From childhood's airy slumbers — 
School at whose antique shrine I bow, 
Sexagenarian pilgrim now, 

Accept a poet's numbers. 

Those yew-trees never seem to grow : 
The village stands in statu quo, 

Without a single new house. 
But, heavens, how shrunk ! how very smallf 
'Tis a mere step from Urmstone's wall, 

"Up town," to Morgan's brewhouse. 

There, in yon rough-cast mansion, dwelt 
Sage Denham, Galen's son, who dealt 

In squills and cream of tartar ; 
Fronting the room where now I dine, 
Beneath thy undulating sign, 

Peak-bearded Charles the Martyr ! 

Pent in by beams of mouldering wood 
The parish stocks stand where they stood — 

Did ever drunkard rue 'em ? 
I dive not in parochial law. 
Yet this I know — I never saw 

Two legs protruded through 'em. 

Here, to the right, rose hissing proofs 
Of skill to solder horses' hoofs. 
Formed in the forge of Radley ; 



CHiawELL. 267 

And there, the almshouses bejond, 
Half-way before you gain the Pond, 
Lived wry-mouthed Martin Hadley. 

Does Philby still exist ? Where now 
Are Willis, Wilcox, Green, and Howe ? 

Ann Wright, the smart and handy? 
Hillman alone a respite steals 
From Fate ; and — vice Hadley — deals 

In tea and sugar-candy. 

Can I my school-friend Belson track ? 
Where hides him Chamberlaine ? where Black, 

Intended for the altar ? 
Does life-blood circulate in Bates ? 
Where are Jack Cumberlege and Yates ? 

The Burrells, Charles and Walter ? 

There, at your ink-bespattered shrine, 
Cornelius Nepos first was mine ; 

Here facrged I hard at Plutarch : 
Found Ovid's mighty pleasant ways, 
While Plato's metaphysic maze 

Appeared like Pluto — too dark. 

Here usher Ireland sat — and there 
Stood Bolton, Cowal, Parker, Ware, 

Medley, the pert and witty, 
And here — crack station, near the fire — 
Sat Roberts, whose Haymarket sire 

Sold oil and spermaceti. 

Yon pew, the gallery below, 
Held Nancy, pride of Cliigwell Row, 
Who set all hearts a dancino; : 



268 CHIGWELL. 

In bonnet white, divine brunette, 

O'er Burnet's field I see thee yet, 

To Sunday church advancing. 

Seek -we the churchyard ; there the yew 
Shades many a swain whom once I knew. 

Now nameless and forgotten ; 
Here towers Sir Edward's marble bier, 
Here lies stern Vickery, and here, 

My father's friend Tom Cotton. 

The common herd serenely sleep, 
Turf-bound, "in many a mouldering heap" 

Pent in by bands of osier ; 
While at the altar's feet is laid 
The founder of the school, arrayed 

In mitre and in crosier, 

'Tis nature's law : wave urges wave : 
The coffined grandsire seeks the grave, 

The babe that feeds by suction, 
Finds with his ancestor repose : 
Life ebbs, and dissolution sows 

The seeds of reproduction. 

World, in thy ever busy mart, 
I've acted no unnoticed part — 

Would I resume it ? oh no ! 
Four acts are done, the jest grows stale ; 
The waning lamps burn dim and pale. 

And reason asks — Ciu bono? 

I've met with no "affliction sore;" 
But hold ! methinks, " long time I bore ;" 
Here ends my lucubration — 



CHIGWELL REVISITED. 269 

Content, with David's son, to know, 
That all is vanity below, 
Tho' not quite all vexation. 



CHIGWELL REVISITED. 

Deputed by the tuneful Nine, 
A pilgrim to an Eastern shrine, 

I once again out-sallj ; 
Again to Chigwell wander back, 
And, more excursive, aim to track 

Each neighbouring hill and valley. 

Strange that a village should survive, 
For ten years multiplied by five, 

The same in size and figure. 
Knowing not plenty nor distress — 
If foiled by fortune, why no less ? 

If favoured, why no bigger ? 

Say, why has population got 
Speed-bound upon this level spot, 

Undamaged by profusion ? 
A tyro, I the question ask — 
Be thine, Miss Martineau, the task 

To tender the solution. 

I pass the Vicar's white abode. 

And, pondering, gain the upward road. 

By busy thoughts o'erladen, 
To where " The pride of Chigwell-row" 
Still lives — a handsome Avidow now, 

As erst a lovely maiden. 



270 CHIGWELL REVISITED. 

Here hills and dales and distant Thame, 
And forest glens, green proof proclaim 

Of Nature's lavish bounty, 
And dub thee, lofty region, still 
Surrey's tall foe, the Richmond Hill 

Of this our eastern county. 

Divergino; from the road, the sod 
I tread that once a boy I trod. 

With pace not quite so nimble — 
But where 's the May -pole next the lane? 
Who dared to banish from the plain 

That wreathed-encircled symbol ? 

Abridge, her tank, and waterfall, 
The path beneath Sir Eliab's wall, 

I once again am stepping ; 
Beyond that round we rarely stirred, 
LouGHTON we saw. but only heard 

Of Ongar and of Epping. 

Seek we "the river's" grassy verge, 
Where all were destined to immerge. 

Or willing or abhorrent ; 
I view the well-known " Mill-hole" still- 
But time has dwindled to a rill 

What seemed, of yore, a torrent. 

Here, fell destroyer, many a wound 
The woodman's axe has dealt around; 

Lee Grove in death reposes. 
Yet while her dryads seek their tombs, 
The miller's moated garden blooms 

With all its wonted roses. 



CHIG^yELL REVISITED. 271 

There, in jon copse, near Palmer's Gate, 
Reclined, I mourned mj hapless fate, 

Zerbino amoroso, 
Glad to elope from both the schools, 
"The world shut out," intent on Hoole's 

" Orlando Furioso." 

Twilight steals on : I wander back ; 
The listless ploughman's homeward track, 

Again in thought I follow ; 
Or sit the antique porch within. 
Awed bj the belfry's deafening din, 

And watch the wheeling swallow. 

Chigwell, I cease thy charms to sing — 
Time bears me elsewhere on his wino- • 

Perhaps, ere long, the poet, 
Who now, in mental vio-our bold. 
Parades, erect, thy churchyard mould, 

May sleep, supine, below it. 

So let it be : Time, take thy course ; 
Let dotards with tenacious force 

Cling to this waning planet — 
I'd rather soar to death's abode 
On eagle wings, than " live a toad" 

Pent in a block of granite. 

Grant me the happier lot of him. 
Elate in hope, alert in limb, 

Who hurls Bellona's jav'lin ; 
Fame's laurel ardent to entwine, 
Dares death above the countermine, 

And meets him on the rav'lin. 



272 THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. 

I fear not, Fate, thy pendant shears — 
There are who praj for length of years ; 

To them, not me, allot 'em : 
Life's cup is nectar at the brink, 
Midway a palatable drink, 

And wormwood at the bottom. 



THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. 

Air. — " Over the "Water to Charley." 

I've seen (lucky me !) what you all want to see — 

Good people, give ear to my sonnet — 
I've gazed in the Ring on the Muscovy King, 

And I've peeped at the Oldenburg bonnet ; 
At his sister's approach to get into her coach. 

Her brother steps forward to hand her, 
What ecstacies throb in the hearts of the mob, 

With huzza for the great Alexander ! 

On bracelet and seal behold his profile 

At the shop too of Laurie and Whittle, 
Nat Lee, hold your prate, Alexander the Great 

Is now Alexander the Little ! 
In Lord William's dell, near the Pulteney hotel, 

What multitudes every day wander ! 
They scamper like imps to indulge in a glimpse 

Of the mighty renowned Alexander. 

Poor Madame De Stael is quite pushed to the wall, 
C has Slid by the Czar and the Duchess, 

And since his retreat, even Louis dix-huit 
Must walk on oblivion's crutches. 



THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. 273 

Clerks run from their quills, harberdashers their tills, 

John Bull is a great goosey gander ; 
Even Kean is forgot, we are all on the trot 

For a gaze upon great Alexander. 

"Have jou seen him 's'' the talk, Piccadilly's the walk, 

I suppose since it is so, it must be. 
And nobody thinks of that musical sphinx 

Catalani, or great Doctor Busby. 
Anxiety burns every bosom by turns 

To flirt with this royal Philander, 
And happy the wight who can utter at night — 

"This morning I saw Alexander." 

He dresses with taste, he is small in the waist, 

I beheld him with Blucher and Platoff, 
The Hetman appears with his cap on his ears, 

But the Emperor rides with his hat off: 
He sits on his throne with a leg in each zone. 

No monarch on earth can be grander ; 
Half an hour after dark, the rails of the Park 

Are scaled to behold Alexander. 

When the town was illumed, how his residence bloomed, 

With Lamps to the balcony fitted. 
I'm told his Cossacks made eleven attacks 

To drink up the oil ere they lit it ! 
The Chronicle says that he laces in stays — ■ 

Perhaps this is nothing but slander ; 
Since his stay is not long I will shorten my song 

With huzza for the great Alexander ! 
12* 



274 THE GRETNA GREEN BLACKSMITH. 

THE GRETNA GREEN BLACKSMITH. 

Air.—'' The Sprig of ShiUelali." 

Though my face is all smutty not fit to be seen, 
I'm the tinkei-ing parson of Gretna Green, 

With my rang, tang, hammer and nail. 
To look like the ladies is always my plan, 
So I roll up my sleeves as high as I can, 
In spite of my vice, and though I am lame, 
I make the sparks fly, and myself raise a flame, 

With my rang, tang, hammer and nail. 

In chaises-and-four lovers fly to my cot, 
With folly remembered, and prudence forgot, 

With a rang, tang, hammer and nail. 
Down hill, helter-skelter they fearlessly move. 
For who ever thinks of a hind wheel in love ? 
So, while the young lady her passion reveals, 
I tack them together — then hammer the wheels, 

With my rang, tang, hammer and nail. 

"Oh dear," says Miss Lucy, a delicate fright in, 
" I was all over rust till they took me to Brighton, 

With my rang, tang, hammer and nail. 
Indeed, Mr. Parson, you'll find me no fool, 
I'm a great deal too old to be sent back to school ; 
Captain Shark of the Fourth is the man I adore. 
My Pa is a bear, and my Ma is a bore, 

With their rang, tang, hammer and nail." 

But, alas ! ten to one, ere they got back to toAvn, 
My lady is up, and the carriage breaks down. 
With a rang, tang, hammer and nail. 



MATRIMONIAL DUET. 275 

Of tears my young Madam dissolves in a flood, 
Her head in the clouds, and her feet in the mud, 
Till both recollecting the cause of the evil, 
Wish carriage, and marriage, and me at the devil, 
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail. 

I can make a jack-chain, a pattern, a knife, 
I forge heavy fetters for husband and wife. 

With my rang, tang, hammer and nail. 
Here Venus and Vulcan their compact renew, 
A partner for life or a tenpenny screw, 
A wedlock, a padlock, I do not care which — 
So the tinker of Gretna is sure to grow rich, 

With his rang, tang, hammer and nail. 



MATRIMONIAL DUET. 

Air. — " The Pretty Maid of Derby." 
HE. 

When we first were man and wife, 

And you swore to love for life. 
We were quoted as a model, we were quite a show. 

Yes, we ttte-a-tHe were seen. 

Like King William and his Queen ; 
What a jewel of a wife was Mrs. John Prevut ! 

she. 

Ay, once I clave to thee, man, 

Like Baucis to Philemon, 
Now, if I go to Brighton, you 're at Bath I know ; 

Like the pair who tell the weather, 

We are never out together. 
One at home, the other gadding, Mr. John Prevot. 



276 OWEN OF LANARK. 

HE. 

If a lion 's to be seen, 

Old Blucher — Mr. Kean, 
You order out the carriage, and away you go 

With that gossip, Mrs. Jones ; 

How you rattle o'er the stones, 
You 've no mercy on the horses, Mrs. John Prevot. 

SHE. 

With Madeira, Port, and Sherry, 

When you make what you call merry. 
And sit in sober sadness, are you sober ? No ! 

With that horrid Major Rock, 

It is always twelve o'clock. 
Ere you tumble up to coffee, Mr. John Prevot. 

BOTH. 

Our vicar, Doctor Jervis, 

When he read the marriage service. 
United us for better and for worse — Heigh-ho ! 

Since the worse may turn to better, 

And we cannot break our fetter. 
Let us say no more about it, Mr. (Mrs.) John Prevot. 



OWEN OF LANARK. 

Welcome, welcome, mighty stranger, 

To our transatlantic shore : 
Anchored safe from seas of danger, 

All our fears and doubts are o'er. 
Sable Jews and flaxen Quakers 

Imitate no more the shark ; 
Wealth lies planted out in acres — 

Welcome, Owen of Lanark ! 



OWEN OF LANARK. 277 

Parallelograms of virtue, 

Haunts from human frailty free, 
Squares that vice can ne'er do hurt to, 

Circles of New Harmony : 
Schemes that blossom while we view 'em, 

Swamp and prairie changed to park : 
Meum melting into tuum — 

Wondrous Owen of Lanark! 

All New York, in mind and body, 

Feels thy influence, and adores ; 
Bitters, Sangaree, and Toddy 

Fly her fifteen hundred stores. 
Big Ohio now looks bigger. 

Freedom fans the kindred spark : 
Boss no longer scowls on nigger — 

Welcome, Owen of Lanark ! 

Lazarus lies down with Dives, 

Rich and poor no more are seen ; 
Baltimore our common hive is ; 

Busy bees, and thou their Queen. 
Uncle Ben lays down his rifle, 

While his Nephew — prone to bark — 
Thanks his stars for "that 'ere trifle," 

Mighty Owen of Lanark ! 

Failing schemers, retrograders, 

Lawyers fattening on strife, 
Grim backwoodsmen, bankrupt traders, 

Squatters brandishing the knife : 
Busy Banks their Cents up summing 

Many a Master, many a Clerk, 
Drop their dollars at thy coming, 

Mighty Owen of Lanark ! 



278 THE TRITON OF THE MINNOWS. 

Foe to titled Sirs and Madams, 

Prone Law's blunders to redress, 
Washington nor Quincj Adams 

Ever saw thy like, I guess. 
Let John Bull's polluted pages 

Dub thee staring, dub thee stark : 
Solon of succeeding Ages, 

Welcome, Owen of Lanark ! 

Vast, I calculate, thy plan is, 

Born to soar where others creep ; 
Lofty as the Alleghanies, 

As the Mississippi deep. 
As the German Brothers mingle. 

Prone to sing " hark follow hark," 
All our States, through dell and dingle^ 

Hail thee, Owen of Lanark ! 

"Pve an item." Boss and Peasant 

Feel quite mighty where you stray ; 
Competence is omnipresent, 

Poverty "slick right away." 
See our bipeds, "like all natur," 

Climbing up thy friendly ark, 
Dub thee Sovereign Legislator, 

Welcome, Owen of Lanark ! 



THE TRITON OF THE MINNOWS. 

" Why don't you strike out something new?" 
Cried fair Euphemia, heavenly blue 

Of eye, as well as stocking ! 
" If shilly-shally long you stand, 
You'll feel Time's enervating hand 

Your second cradle rocking." 



THE TRITON OF THE MINNOWS. 279 

" Ah, Madam ! cease your bard to blame; 
I view the pedestal of Fame, 

But at its base I falter : 
On every step, terrific, stand 
A troop of Poets, pen in hand, 

To scare me from her altar. 

I first essayed to write in prose. 
Plot, humor, character disclose. 

And ransack heaths and hovels : 
But, when I sat me down to write, 
I sighed to find that I had quite 

O'erlooked the Scottish Novels." 

"Well," cried Euphemia, with a smile, 
" Miss Austin's gone : assume her style ; 

Turn playmate of Apollo — 
But, hold ! how heedless the remark ! 
Miss Austin's gone — but Mansfield Park 

And Emma scorn to follow." 

A bolder flight I'd fain essay. 
The Manners of the East portray. 

That field is rich and spacious : 
Greece, Turkey, Egypt — what a scope ! 
There too I'm foiled — why will not Hope 

tin-write his Anastasius ! 

Rogers, in calm and even sense, 
Byron, in ecstacy intense. 

Make my dim flame burn denser : 
Shall I in Fashion's corps enlist, 
A light gay epigrammatist ? 

No ! — there I'm marred by Spenser. 



280 THE TRITON OF THE MINNOWS. 

Thus " cribb'd and cabin'd" — " Poor indeed !" 
I cantered on mj winged steed 

Towards scenes of toil and tillage : 
But there, alas ! mj weary hack 
Hit on another beaten track, 

Encountering Crabbe's Village. 

Two pathways still to me belong, 
Come, poignant Satire ! amorous Song I 

Beware, ye state empirics ! — 
Anticipated ! hideous bore ! 
I quite forgot Hibernian Moore, 

His Fudges, and his Lyrics. 

Great Jove ! compassionate my lot ! 
On Campbell, Byron, Moore, and Scott, 

Point thy celestial cannon : 
Sew Crabbe and Rogers in a saclc. 
Tie Hope and Spenser back to back, 

And souse them in the Shannon. 

So shall I, with majestic tread, 
My doughty predecessors dead. 

Up Pindus stretch my sinews : 
And leave all lesser bards behind, 
"The one-eyed monarch of the blind," 

" The Triton of the Minnows." 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 281 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

At Number One dwelt Captain Drew, 
George Benson dwelt at Number Two, 

(The street we'll not now mention :) 
The latter stunned the King s Bench bar, 
The former being lamed in war. 

Sang small upon a pension. 

Tom Blewit knew them both : than he 
None deeper in the mystery 

Of culinary knowledge ; 
From turtle soup to Stilton cheese, 
Apt student, taking his degrees 

In Mrs. Rundell's college. 

Benson to dine invited Tom : 
Proud of an invitation from 

A host who " spread" so nicely, 
Tom answered, ere the ink was dry, 
''Extremely happy — come on Fri- 

Day next, at six precisely." 

Blewit, with expectation fraught, 
Drove up at six, each savoury thought 

Ideal turbot rich in : 
But, ere he reached the winning-post, 
He saw a haunch of ven'son roast 

Down in the next-door kitchen. 

" Hey ! zounds ! what 's this ? a haunch at Drews ? 
I must drop in; I can't refuse; 
To pass were downright treason : 



282 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

To cut Ned Benson 's not quite staunch ; 
But the provocative — a haunch ! 
Zounds ! it 's the first this season. 

" Ven'son, thou 'rt mine ! I'll talk no more." 
Then, rapping thrice at Benson's door, 

" John, I'm in such a hurrj ; 
Do tell your master that mj aunt 
Is paralytic, quite aslant, 

I must be off for Surrey." 

Now Tom at next door makes a din : 

"Is Captain Drew at home?"—" Walk in." 

" Drew, how d'ye do?"—" What ! Blewit !" 
"Yes, I — you 've asked me, many a day, 
To drop in, in a quiet way. 

So now I'm come to do it." 

"I'm very glad you have," said Drew, 
" I've nothing but an Irish stew" — 

Quoth Tom, (aside,) " No matter; 
'Twont do — my stomach 's up to that — 
'Twill lie by, till the lucid fat 

Comes quiv'ring on the platter." 

"You see your dinner, Tom," Drew cried. 
"No, but I don't though," Tom replied; 

"I smoked below."—" What?"—" Ven'son— 
A haunch." — " Oh ! true, it is not mine ; 
My neighbour has some friends to dine." 

" Your neighbour ! who ?" — " George Benson. 

"His chimney smoked; the scene to change, 
I let him have my kitchen range, 
While his was newly polished ; 



ODE TO SENTIMENT. 283 

The ven'son you observed below 
Went home just half an hour ago ; 
I guess it 's now demolished. 

"Tom, why that look of doubtful dread? 
Come, help yourself to salt and bread, 

Don't sit with hands and knees up ; 
But dine, for once, off Irish stew. 
And read the ' Dog and Shadow' through, 

When next you open ^sop." 



ODE TO SENTIMENT. 



Daughter of dulness ! canting dame ! 

Thou night-mare on the breast of joy, 
Whose drowsy morals, still the same, 

The stupid soothe, the gay annoy ; 
Soft cradled in thy sluggish arms, 
E'en footpads prate of guilt's alarms, 
And pig-tailed sailors, sadly queer. 
Affect the melting mood, and drop the pitying tear. 

When first to tickle Britain's nose 

Hugh Kelly raised his leaden quill, 
Thy poppies lent the wished repose, 

And bade the gaping town be still. 
Poor Comedy ! thine opiate lore 
With patience many a day she bore. 
Till Goldsmith all thy hopes dismay'd. 
And drove thee from the stage by Tony Lumpkin's aid. 

Scared by thy Ian thorn visage, flee 
Thalia's offspring light and merry, 



284 ODE TO SENTIMENT. 

Loud laughter, wit, and repartee, 

And leave us moralising Cherry. 
They fly, and carry in their line, 
Grimaldi, Goose, and Columbine, 
To Sadler's Wells by Dibdin taken, 
With him they vow to dwell, nor find themselves for- 
saken. 

Soliloquy, with clamorous tongue. 

That brings the Lord knows what to view, 

And, Affectation, pert and young. 

Swearing to love— the Lord knows who ; 

Still round the midnight caldron caper, 

Warm Charity with Newland's paper, 

And baby Bounty not unwilling 
To give to mother dear her new King George's shilling. 

gently o'er the modern stage. 

Fair preacher, raise thy deafening din ! 

Not with the metaphoric rage 

That guides the sword of Harlequin, 

(As erst thou didst the town amuse,) 

With tender bailiffs, generous Jews, 

Socratic soldiers, praying sailors, 
Chaste harlots, lettered clowns, and duel-fighting tailors. 

Forbear thy handkerchief of brine. 

Some gleams of merriment admit ; 
Be tears in moderation thine, 

To water, not to drown, the pit. 
But if, with streaming eye askew, 
Thou still wilt blubber five acts through. 
Have pity on a son of rhyme. 
Usurp the play — 'tis your's — but spare the pantomime. 



REJECTED ADDRESSES! 

OB, 

THE NEW TIIEATRUM POETARUM, 



BY 

JAMES SMITH AND HORACE SMITH. 



"Fired that the House reject him 1— ' Sdeath, VU print it, 
And shame the Fools!" 

FOFO. 



" I think the ' Rejected Addresses' by far the best thing of the kind since ' The 
RoUiad,' and wish you. had published tliem. Tell the author 'I forgive him, 
were he twenty times over our satirist;' and think his imitations not at aU 
inferior to the famous ones of Hawkins Browne." 

Lord Byeon to Me. Muekay, Oct. 19, 1812. 

" I like the volume of ' Rejected Addresses' better and better." 

Lord Byeon to Me. Mueeay, Oct. 23, 1812. 

" I take the ' Rejected Addresses' to be the very best imitations (and often of 
difficult originals) that ever were made : and considering their great extent and 
variety, to indicate a talent, to which I do not know where to look for a parallel. 
Some few of them descend to the level of parodies ; but by far the greater part 
are of a much higher description." 

Lobs Jeffbey {in 1843), Note in Essays, iv. 470. 



PREFACE. 



On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement ap- 
peared in most of the daily papers : — 

" Rebuilding of Drury-lane Theatre. 

" The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair com- 
petition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the 
Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next. 
They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the public, that 
they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to 
their Secretary, at the Treasury-ofl&ce, in Drury-lane, on or before 
the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, 
number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscrip- 
tion on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author, 
which will not be opened unless containing the name of the suc- 
cessful candidate." 

Upon the propriety of tliis plan, men's minds were, as they 
usually are upon matters of moment, much divided. Some 
thought it a fair promise of the future intention of the Committee 
to abohsh that phalanx of authors who usurp the stage, to the 
exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic talent blushing unseen 
in the back-ground; while others contended, that the scheme 
would prevent men of real eminence from descending into an 
amphitheatre in which all Crub-street (that is to say, all London 
and Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The event 
has proved both parties to be in a degree right, and in a degi-ee 
wrong. One hundred and twelve Addresses have been sent in, 
each sealed, and signed, and mottoed, " as per order," some writ- 
ten by men of great, some by men of Uttle, and some by men of 
no talent. 

[ * To the First Edition published in OctoTjar, 1S12] 



288 PREFACE. 

Many of the public prints have censured tlie taste of the Com- 
mittee, in thus contracting for Addresses a3 they would for naUs — 
by the gross ; but it is surprising that none should have censured 
their temerity. One liundred and eleven of the Adch^esses must, 
of course, be unsuccessful : to each of the authors, thus infallibly 
classed with the genus irritabile, it would be very hard to deny 
six stanch friends, who consider liis the best of aU possible 
Addresses, and whose tongues Avill be as ready to laud liim, as to 
hiss his adversary. These, with the potent aid of the bard him- 
self, make seven foes per address ; and thus will be created seven 
hundred and seventy seven implacable auditors, prepared to con- 
demn the strains of Apollo himself — a band of adversaries which 
no prudent manager would tliink of exasperating. 

But, leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility 
they have incurred, the public have at least to thank them for 
ascertaining and estabhshing one point, which might otherwise 
have admitted of controversy. When it is considered that many 
amateur writers have been discouraged from becoming com- 
petitors, and that few, if any, of the professional authors can 
afford to write for notliing, and, of course, have not been can- 
didates for the honorary prize of Drury-lane, we may confidently 
conclude that, as far as regards number, the present is undoubt- 
edly the Augustan age of English poetry. Whether or not this 
distinction will be extended to the quality of its productions, 
must be decided at the tribunal of posterity ; though the natural 
anxiety of our authors on this score ought to be considerably 
diminished when they reflect how few Avill, in all probabiUty, be 
had up for judgment. 

It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner in 
which he became possessed of this " fair sample of the present 
state of poetry in Great Britain." It was his first intention to 
publish the whole ; but a little reflection convinced him that, by 
so doing, he might depress tlie good, without elevating the bad. 
He has therefore culled what had the appearance of flowers, from 
what possessed the reahty of weeds, and is extremely sorry that, 
in so doing, he has diminished his collection to twenty-one. 
Those which he has rejected may possibly make their appearance 
in a separate volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers in 
the files of some of the newspapers ; or, at all events, they are 
sure of being received among the awkward squad of the Mag- 



PREFACE. 289 

aziacs. In general, they bear a close resemblance to each other ; 
thh-ty of them contain extravagant compliments to the immortal 
Wellington and the indefatigable Whitbread; and, as the last- 
mentioned gentleman is said to disUke praise in the exact propor- 
tion in which he deserves it, these laudatory writers have prob- 
ably been only building a wall against which they might run their 
own heads. 

The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf 
of that useful and much abused bird the Phoenix; and in so 
doing, he is biassed by no partiality, as he assures the reader ho 
not only never saw one, but (mirabile dictu /) never caged one, in 
a simile, in the whole course of Ms life. Not less than sixty-nine 
of the competitors have invoked the aid of this native of. Arabia; 
but as, from their manner of using him when they caught him, 
he does not by any means appear to have been a native of Arabia 
Felix, the Editor has left the proprietors to treat with ilr. PoUto, 
and refused to receive this rara avis, or black swan, into the col- 
lection. One exception occurs, in wloich the admirable treatment 
of this feathered incombustible entitles the author to great praise : 
that Address has been preserved, and in the ensuing pages takes 
the lead, to which its dignity entitles it. 

Perhaps the reason why several of the sulDJoined productions 
of the Mus^ LoNDiNENSES have failed of selection, may be dis'- 
covered in their being penned in a metre unusual upon occasions 
of this sort, and in their not being written with that attention to 
stage effect, the want of whicli, like want of manners in the con- 
cerns of life, is more prejudicial than a deficiency of talent. There 
is an art of writing for the Theatre, technically called touch and 
go, which is indispensable when we consider the small quantum 
of patience which so motley an assemblage as a London auchence 
can be expected to afford. AU the contributors have been very 
exact in sending their initials and mottoes. Those belonging to 
the present collection have been carefully preserved, and each 
have been af&xed to its respective poem. The letters that ac- 
companied the Addresses having been honourably destroyed 
unopened, it is impossible to state the real authors \n\h any cer- 
tainty ; but the ingenious reader, after comparing the initials with 
the motto, and both with the poem, may form his own con- 
clusions. 

The Editor does not anticipate any disapprobation from thus 
13 



290 PREFACE. 

giving publicity to a small portion of the Rejected Addresses ; for 
unless he is widely mistal>en in assignmg the respective authors, 
the fame of eacli individual is estabUshed on much too firm a 
basis to be shaken by so trifling and evanescent a publication as 
the present: 

neque ego illi detrahere ansim 



Hserentem capiti multii cum laude coronam. 

Of the numerous pieces already sent to the Committee for per- 
formance, he has only availed himself of tliree vocal Travesties, 
wliich he has selected, not for their merit, but simply for their 
brevity. Above one hundred spectacles, melodramas, operas, and 
pantomimes, have been transmitted, besides the two first acts of 
one legitimate comedy. Some of these evince considerable 
smartness of manual dialogue, and several repartees of chairs, 
tables, and other inanimate wits ; but the authors seem to have 
forgotten that in the new Drury-lane the audience can hear as 
well as see. Of late our theatres have been so constructed, that 
John Bull has been compelled to have very long ears or none at 
all ; to keep them dangling about liis skull like discarded servants, 
while liis eyes were gazing at pieballs and elephants, or else to 
stretch them out to an asinine length to catch the congenial 
sound of braying trumpets. An auricular revolution is, we trust, 
about to take place ; and as many people have been much puzzled 
to define the meaning of this new era, of which we have heard so 
much, we venture to pronounce, that as far as regards Drury-lane 
Theatre, the new era means the reign of ears. If the past affords 
any pledge for tlie future, we may confiently expect from the 
Committee of that House every thing that can be accomphshed 
by the union of taste and assiduity. 

["We have no conjecture to offer as to the anonymous author of tliis amusing 
little volume. He who is such a master of disguises may easily he supposed to 
have been successful in concealing himself, and, with the power of assuming so 
many styles, is not likely to be detected by liis own. We should guess, however, 
that he had not written a great deal in his own character — that his natural style 
was neither very lofty nor very grave — and that he rather indulges a partiality 
for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut out Campbell and 
Rogers from his theatre of living poets, and confidently expect to have our 
curiosity, in this and all other particulars, very speedily gratified, when the 
applause of the country shall induce him to take off his mask."] 

Loan Jeffrey, Edinburgh Review for Nov. 1812. 



PREFACE 



THE EIGHTEENTH EDITION* 



In the present publishing era, when books are like the multi- 
tudinous waves of the advancing sea, some of Av'iich make no 
impression whatever upon the sand, while the superficial traces 
left by others ate destined to be perpetually obliterated by their 
successors, almost as soon as they are found, the authors of the 
Rejected Addresses may well feel flattered, after a lapse of twenty 
years, and the sale of seventeen large editions, in receiving an 
application to write a Preface to a new and more handsome im- 
pression. In diminution, however, of any overweening vanity 
which they might be disposed to indulge on this occasion, they 
cannot but admit the truth of the remark made by a particularly 
candid and good-natured friend, wlio kindly reminded them, 
that if their little Avork has liitherto floated upon the stream of 
time, while so many others of much greater weight and value have 
sunk to rise no more, it has been solely indebted for its buoyancy 
to that specific levity which enables feathers, straws, and similar 
trifles, to defer their submersion, until they have become Ihorouglily 
saturated with the waters of obhvion, when they quickly meet the 
fate which they had long before merited. 

Our ingenuous and ingenious friend furthermore observed, that 
the demolition of Drury Lane Theatre by fire, its reconstruction 
under the auspices of the celebrated Mr. Whitbread,t the reward 
ofiered by the Committee for an opening address, and the public 
recitation of a poem composed expressly for the occasion by 
Lord Byron, one of the most popular writers of the age, formed 

[ * 12mo, 1833. The first published by Mr. Murray. The " Preface" -was 
■written by Horace Smith ; the " Notes" to the Poems by James Smith.] 
[t Samuel Whltbread, M.P. He died by his own hand in 1815.] 



292 PREFACE TO 

an extraordinary concurrence of circumstances which could not 
fail to insure the success of the Rejected Addresses^ while it has 
subsequently served to fix them in the memory of the public, so 
far at least as a poor immortality of twenty years can be said to 
have effected that object. In fact, continued our impartial and 
affectionate monitor, your little work owes its present obscure 
existence entirely to the accidents that have surrounded and 
embalmed it, — even as flies, and other wortliless insects, may 
long survive their natural date of extinction, if they chance to 
be preserved in amber, or any similar substance. 

The things we know, are neither rich nor rare — 
But wonder how the devil they get there I — Pope. 

With the natural affection of parents for the offspring of their 
own brains, we ventured to hint that some portion of our suc- 
cess might perhaps be attributable to the manner in which the 
different imitations were executed ; but our worthy friend pro- 
tested that his sincere regard for us, as well as for the cause of 
truth, compelled liim to reject our claim, and to pronounce that, 
when once the idea had been conceived, all the rest followed as 
a matter of course, and might have been executed by any other 
hands not less felicitously than by our own. 

Willingly leaving this matter to the decision of the public, 
since we cannot be umpires in our own cause, we proceed to de- 
tail such circumstances attending the writing and pubUcation of 
our httle work, as may literally meet the wishes of the present 
proprietor of the copyright, who has applied to us for a gossiping 
Preface. Were we disposed to be grave and didactic, which is as 
foreign to our mood as it was twenty years ago, we might draw 
the attention of the reader, in a fine sententious paragraph, to the 
trifles upon which the fate of empires, as well as afour-and-sixpenny 
volume of parodies, occasionally hangs in trembling balance. No 
sooner was the idea of our work conceived, than it was about to 
be abandoned in embryo, from the apprehension that we had no 
time to mature and bring it forth, as it was indispensable that it 
should be written, printed, and pubUshed by the opening of Drury 
Lane Theatre, which would only allow us an interval of six 
weeks, and we had both of us other avocations that precluded 
us from the full command of even that limited period. Encour- 
aged, however, by the conviction tliat the thought was a good 



THE EIGHTEENTH EDITION. 293 

one, and by the hope of making a kicl^ hit, we set to work con 
mnore, our very hurry not improbably enabling us to strilce out at 
a heat what we might have failed to produce so well, had we 
possessed time enough to hammer it into more careful and elabo- 
rate form. 

Our first difficulty, that of selection, Avas by no means a light 
one. Some of our most eminent poets, such, for instance, as 
Rogers and Campbell, presented so much beauty, harmony, and 
proportion in their writings, both as to style and sentiment, that 
if we had attempted to caricature them, nobody Avould have rec- 
ognised the Ukeness ; and if we had endeavoured to give a servile 
copy of their manner, it would only have amounted, at best, to 
a tame and unamusing portrait, which it was not our object to 
present. Although fully aware that their names would, in the 
theatrical phrase, have conferred great strength upon our bill, we 
were reluctantly compelled to forego them, and to confine ourselves 
to writers whose style and habit of thought, being more marked 
and peculiar, was more capable of exaggeration and distortion. 
To avoid politics and personality, to imitate the turn of mhiJ, as 
well as the phraseology of our originals, and, at all events, to 
raise a harmless laugh, were our main objects : in the attainment 
of which united aims, we were sometimes hurried into extrava- 
gance, by attaching much more importance to the last than to 
the two first. In no instance were we thus betrayed into a 
greater injustice than in the case of Mr. Wordsworth — the 
toucliing sentiment, profound wisdom, and copious harmony of 
whose loftier writings we left unnoticed, in the desu'e of bur- 
lesquing them ; wliile we pounced upon his popular ballads, and 
exerted ourselves to push their simplicity into pueiihty and .-iUi- 
ness. With pride and pleasure do we now claim to be ranked 
among the most ardent admirers of this true poet; and if he 
himself could see the state of his works, which are ever at our 
right hand, he would, perhaps, receive the manifest evidence 
they exhibit of constant reference, and delighted re-perusal, as 
some sort of amende honorable for the unfairness of which we 
were guilty, when Ave were less conversant with tlie higher in- 
spirations of his muse. To Mr. Coleridge, and others of our 
originals, we must also do a tardy act of justice, by rleclaring that 
our burlesque of their pecuharities has never bhu'led us to those 
beauties and talents wliich are beyond the reach of all ridicule. 



294 PREFACE TO 

One of us* had ^v^itten a genuine Address for the occasion, 
which was sent to the Committee, and sliared the fate it merited, 
in being rejected. To swell the bullc, or rather to diminish the 
tenuity of our httle work, we added it to the Imitations ; and 
prefixing the initials of S. T. P. for the purjjose of puzzling the 
critics, were not a Uttle amused, in the sequel, by the many 
guesses and conjectures into which we had ensnared some of our 
readers. We could even enjoy the mysticism, qualified as it was 
by the poor compliment, that our carefuUy written Address 
exliibited no " very prominent trait of absurdity," when we saw 
it thus noticed in the Edinhurgh Review for November 1812. 
" An Address by S. T. P. we can make nothing of; and profess- 
ing our ignorance of the author designated by these letters, we 
can only add, that the Address, though a httle affected, and not 
very full of meaning, has no very prominent trait of absurdity, 
that we can detect ; and might have been adopted and spoken, 
so far as we can perceive, without any hazard of ridicule. In our 
simphcity we consider it as a very decent, mellifluous, occasional 
prologue : and do not understand how it has found its way into 
its present company." 

Urged forward by hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad 
coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated ourselves 
on having completed our task in time to have it printed and pub- 
lished by the opening of the theatre. But alas ! our difficulties, 
so far from being surmounted, seemed only to be beginning. 
Strangers to the arcana of the bookseller's trade, and unacquainted 
with their almost invincible objection to single volumes of low 
price, especially when tendered by writers who have acquired no 
previous name, we httle anticipated that they would refuse to 
pubhsh our Rejected Addresses^ even although we asked nothing 
for the copyright. Such, however, proved to be the case. Our 
manuscript was perused and returned to us by several of the 
most eminent publishers.! WeU do we remember betaking our- 

[ * This was Horatio, the writer of the present Preface.] 

[t The passage, as originally written, continued thus, "and among others, so 
difficult is it in forming a correct judgment in catering to the public taste, by the 
very bibliopolist who has now, after an interval of twenty {only seven] years, 
purchased the copyright from a brother bookseller and ventured upon the 
present edition." To this, on the proof-sheet, tln^ late Mr. Murray appended the 
following note : — " I never saw or even had the MS. in my possession ; but know- 



THE EIGHTEENTH EDITION. 295 

selves to one of the craft in Bond-street, whom we found in a 
back parlour, with liis gouty leg propped upon a cusliion, in spite 
of which warning he diluted his luncheon with frequent glasses 
of Maderia. "What have you already written ?" was his first 
question, an interrogatory to which we had been subjected in 
almost every instance. " Nothing by which we can be known." 
" Then I am afraid to undertake the publication." We presumed 
timidly to suggest that every writer must have a beginning, and 
that to refuse to publish for him until he had acquired a name, 
was to imitate the sapient mother who cautioned her son againt 
going into the water until he could swim. "An old joke — a 
regular Joe!" exclaimed our companion, tossing off another 
bumper. " Still older than Joe Miller," was our reply ; " for, if 
we mistake not, it is the very first anecdote in the faceti^ of 
Hierocles." " Ha, sirs !" resumed the bibliopolist, " you are 
learned, are you ? So, soh ! — Well, leave your manuscript -with 
me ; I will look it over to-night, and give you an answer to- 
morrow." Punctual as the clock we presented ourselves at his 
door on the following morning, when our papers were returned 
to us witli the observation — " These trifles are really not deficient 
in smartness ; they are well, vastly well for beginners ; but they 
will never do — never. They would not pay for advertising, and 
without it I should not sell fifty copies." 

This was discouraging enough. If the most experienced pub- 
lishers feared to be out of pocket by the work, it was manifest, d 
fortiori^ that its writers ran a risk of being still more heavy 
losers, should they undertake the publication on their own 
account. We had no objection to raise a laugh at the expense 
of others ; but to do it at our own cost, uncertain as we were to 
what extent we might be involved, had never entered into our 
contemplation. In tlris dilemma, our Addresses, now in every 
sense rejected, might probably have never seen the light, had not 
some good angel whispered us to betake ourselves to Mr. John 
Miller, a dramatic publisher, then residing in Bow-street, Covent 
Garden. No sooner had this gentleman looked over our manu- 
script, than he immeiUately offered to take upon himst-If all tiie 

ing that Mr. Smith was brother-in-law to Mr. Cadell, I took it for granted that 
the MS. had been previously offered to him and declined." Mr. H. Smith con- 
sequently drew his pen through the passage.] 



296 PREFACE TO 

risk of publication, and to give us half the profits, should there he 
any ; a liberal proposition with which we gladly closed. So 
rapid and decided was its success, at which none were more un- 
feignedly astonished than its authors, that Mr. Miller advised us 
to collect some Imitations of Horace, which had appeared anony- 
mously in the Monthly Mirror* offering to pubhsh them upon the 
same terms. AVe did so accordingly ; and as new editions of tire 
Rejected Addresses were called for m quick succession, we were 
shortly enabled to sell our half copyright in the two works to 
Mr. Miller, for one thousand pounds 1 1 We have entered into 
this unimportant detail, not to gratify any A^anity of our own, but 
to encourage such literary beginners as may be placed in similar 
circumstances ; as well as to impress upon publishers the propriety 
of giving more consideration to the possible merit of the works 
submitted to them, than to the mere magic of a name. 

To the credit of tlie genus irritahile be it recorded, that not one 
of those whom we had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the 
least soreness on the occasion, or refused to join in the laugh that 
we had occasioned. With most of them we subsequently formed 
acquaintancesiiip ; wlrile some honoured us with an intimacy which 
still contiuues, where it has not been severed by the rude hand 
of Death. Alas ! it is painful to reflect, that of the twelve writers 
whom we presumed to imitate, five are now no more ; the list of 
the deceased being unhappily swelled by the most illustrious of 
all, the clarum et venerahile nomen of Sir Walter Scott ! From 
that distinguished writer, whose transcendent talents were only 
to be equalled by his virtues and liis amiability, we received fa- 
vours and notice, both public and private, which it will be difficult 
to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kind- 
ness. " I certainly must have written this myself!" said that 
fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the de- 
scription of the Fire, " Although I forget upon what occasion." 
Lydia White,t a Hterary lady who was prone to feed the lions of 
the day, invited one of us to dinner ; but, recollecting afterwards 

[ * Between 1S07 and ISIO. The Monthly Mirror was edited by Edward Du 
Bois, author of " My Pocket-Book," and by Thomas Hill ; the original Paul Pry ; 
and the Hull of Mr. Theodore Hook's novel of " Gilbert Gurney."] 

[ t Miss Lydia White, celebrated for her lively wit and for her blue-stocking 
parties, unrivalled, it is said, in "the soft realm of blue May Fair." She died 
in 1827, and is mentioned in the Diaries of Scott and Byron,] 



THE EIGHTEENTH EDITION, 297 

that "Willir.m Spencer formed one of the party, wrote to the 
latter to put liim off; telhng him that a man was to be at her 
table whom "he would not like to meet." " Pray who is this 
whom I should not hke to meet?" inquired the poet. "0!" 
answered the lady, " one of those men who have made that 
shameful attack upon you 1" " The very man upon earth I should 
Hke to laiow I" rejoined the lively and careless bard. The two 
individuals accordingly met, and have continued fast friends ever 
since. Lord Byron, too, wrote tlius to Mr. Murray from Italy — 
" Tell him I forgive him, were he twenty times over our 
satirist." 

It may not be amiss to notice, in tliis place, one criticism of a 
Leicestershire clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: "I 
do not see why they should have been rejected," observed the 
matter-of-fact annotator; "I think some of them very good!" 
Upon the whole, few have been the instances, in the acrimonious 
history of literature, where a malicious pleasantry like the Re- 
jected Addresses — which the parties ridiculed might well consider 
more annoying than a direct satire — instead of being met by 
querulous bitterness or petulant retaliation, has procured for its 
authors the acquaintance, or conciliated the good-will, of those 
whom they had the most audaciously burlesqued. 

In commenting on a work, however trifling, which has sur- 
vived the lapse of twenty years, an author may almost claim 
the privileged garruUty of age ; yet even in a professedly gos- 
siping Preface, we begin to fear that we are exceeding our com- 
mission, and abusing the patience of the reader. If we are 
doing so, we might urge extenuating circumstances, which will 
explain, though they may not excuse, our diffuseness. To one 
of us the totally unexpected success of this Httle work proved 
an important event, since it mainly decided liim, some years af- 
terwards, to embark in the Uterary career which the continued 
favour of that novel-reading world has rendered both pleasant 
and profitable to him. This is the first, as it will probably be 
the last, occasion upon which we shaU ever intrude ourselves 
personally on the public notice ; and we trust that our now doing 
so will stand excused by the reasons we have adduced. For the 
portraits prefixed to this edition we are in no way responsible. 
At the sale of the late Mr. Harlowe's effects, the drawing from 
13* 



298 PREFACE TO THE EIGHTEENTH EDITION. 

wliich they are cnL,raved was purchased by Mr. Murray ; who, 
conceiving probably that we had no interest in the matter — 
since they were not likenesses of our present heads, but of those 
which we possessed twenty years ago — ^has thought proper to 
give them publicity, without consulting their now rather anti- 
quated originals. 

London, March, 1833- 



I. 

LOYAL EFFUSION. 

BY W. T. F. 



" Quicqnid dicunt, laudo : id rursum si negant, 
Laudo id quoque." Tekence. 

Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work ! 
God bless the Regent and the Duke of York ! 

Ye, Muses ! by whose aid I cried down Fox, 
Grant me in Drury Lane a private box. 
Where I may loll, cry Bravo ! and profess 
The boundless powers of England's glorious press , 
While Afric's sons exclaim, from shore to shore, 
" Quashee ma boo!" — the slave-trade is no more ! 

In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony, 
Since ruined by that arch apostate Boney, ) 
A Phoenix late was caught : the Arab host 
Long ponder' d — part would boil it, part would roast 
But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies. 
Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive they see him rise 
To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies. 
So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed. 
Then by old renters to hot water doora'd. 
By Wyatt's^ trowel patted, plump and sleek. 
Soars without wings, and caws without a beak. 
Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance 
From Paris, the metropolis of France ; 
By this day month the monster shall not gain 
A foot of land in Portugal or Spain. 



300 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

See Wellington in Salamanca's field 

Forces liis favourite general to jield, 

Breaks through his lines, and leaves Lis boasted Mar- 

mont 
Expiring on the plain without his arm on ; 
Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth, 
And then the villages still further south. 
Base Buonaparti, fill'd with deadly ire, 
Sets, one bj one, our playhouses on fire. 
Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on 
The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon ; 
Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames, 
Next at Millbank he cross'd the river Thames ; 
Thy hatch, Halfpenny !^ pass'd in a trice, 
Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice ; 
Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum, 
Turn'd to the left hand, fronting the Asylum, 
And burnt the Boyal Circus in a hurry — 
('Twas caird the Circus then, but now the Surrey). 

Who burnt (confound his soul !) the houses twain 
Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane ?^ 
Who. while the British squadron lay off Cork 
(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York !) 
With )i foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas, 
And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos? 
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise ? 
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies? 
Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch ?^ 
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch ? — 
Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke, 
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke, 
"The tree of freedom is the British oak." 

Bless every man possess'd of aught to give ; 
Long may Long Tylney Wellesley Long Pole livej^ 



LOYAL EFFUSION. 301 



God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet, 
God bless the Navj, bless the Princess Charlotte ; 
God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff, 
God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off; 
And, oh ! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel, 
England's prime minister, then bless the devil ! 



11. 
THE BABY'S DEBUT. 

BY W. W. 



"Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait. 
All thy false mimic fooleries I hate ; 
For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she 
Wlio is right foolish hath the better plea ; 
Nature's true Idiot I prefer to thee." 

CUIIBESLAND. 

[SpoJcen in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, 
who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel 
Hughes, her U7icle's ^30?'<e?'.] 

Mj brother Jack was nine in Maj,^ 
And I was eight on New-years-day ; 

So in Kate Wilson's shop 
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) 
Bought me, hist week, a doll of wax, 

And brother Jack a top. 

Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is, — 
He thinks mine came to more than his ; 

So to my drawer he goes. 
Takes out the doll, and, 0, my stars ! 
He pokes her head between the bars, 

And melts oflf half her nose ! 

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, 
And tie it to his peg-top's peg, 

And bang, with might and main, 



THE baby's debut. 303 

Its head against the parlour-door : 
OflF flies the head, and hits the floor, 
And breaks a window-pane. 

This made him cry with rage and spite : 
Well, let him cry, it serves him right. 

A pretty thing, forsooth ! 
If he 's to melt, all scalding hot. 
Half my doll's nose, and I am not 

To draw his peg-top's tooth ! 

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, 
And cried, " naughty Nancy Lake, 

Thus to distress your aunt : 
No Drury Lane for you to-day !" 
And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!" 

Mamma said, " No, she sha'n't !" • 

Well, after many a sad reproach, 
They got into a hackney coach, 

And trotted down the street. 
I saw them go : one horse was blind, 
The tails of both hung down behind, 

Their shoes were on their feet. 

The chaise in which poor brother Bill 
Used to be drawn to Pentonville, 

Stood in the lumber-room : 
I wiped the dust from ofi" the top. 
While Molly mopp'd it with a mop. 

And brushed it with a broom. 

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, 
Came in at six to black the shoes, 
(I always talk to Sam :) 



304 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

So what does he, but takes, and drags 
Me in the chaise along the flags, 
And leaves me where I am. 

My father's walls are made of brick, 
But not so tall and not so thick 

As these ; and, goodness me ! 
My father's beams are made of wood, 
But never, never half so good 

As those that now I see. 

What a large floor ! 'tis like a town ! 
The carpet, when they lay it down, 

Won't hide it I '11 be bound ; 
And there's a row of lamps ! — my eye ! 
How they do blaze ! I wonder why 
They keep them on the ground. 

At first I caught hold of the wing, 
And kept away ; but Mr. Thing- 

um bob, the prompter man. 
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, 
And said, " Go on, my pretty love; 

Speak to 'em, little Nan. 

" You 've only got to curtsey, whisp- 
er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, 

And then you 're sure to take : 
I 've known the day when brats, not quite 
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night f 

Then why not Nancy Lake ? " 

But while I 'm speaking, where 's papa? 
And where 's my aunt? and where 's mamma? 
Where 's Jack? 0, there they sit! - 



THE baby's debut. 305 

The J smile, they nod ; I Ul go my ways, 
And order round poor Billy's chaise, 
To join them in the pit. 

And now, good gentlefolks, I go 
To join mamma, and see the show ; 

So, bidding you adieu, 
I curtsey, like a pretty miss, 
And if you '11 blow to me a kiss, 

I '11 blow a kiss to you. 

[Blows a kiss, and exitj 



III. 
AN ADDRESS 

■WTTHOUT A PHCENIX. 
BY S. T. P. 



"This was looked for at your band, and this was balked." 

What You Wia. 

What stati^lj vision mocks my waking sense ? 

Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence ! 

Ha ! is it real ? — can my doubts be vain ? 

It is, it is, and Drury lives again ! 

Around each grateful veteran attends, 

Eager to rush and gratulate his friends, 

Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight, 

Endear the past, and make the future bright : 

Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile 

Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile. 

When last we met, Fate's unrelenting band 
Already grasped the devastating brand ; 
Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize, 
Then burst resistless to the astonished skies. 
The glowing walls disrobed of scenic pride, 
In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide, 
Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall, 
Down rushed the thundering roof and buried all ! 

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung, 
And raptured thousands on their music hung, 



AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHCENIX. 307 

Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced, 

Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste ; 

And still had reigned — but he, whose voice can raise 

More magic wonders than Amphion's lays, 

Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage 

To rear the prostrate glories of the stage. 

Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell. 

And Drury's genius saw his temple swell ; 

Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause, 

Worthy of British arts, and your applause. 

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume 
To renovate the drama with the dome ; 
The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old, 
With due observance splendidly unfold, 
Yet raise and foster with parental hand 
The living talent of our native land. 
! may we still, to sense and nature true, 
Delight the many, nor offend the few. 
Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim, 
Still be its moral tendency the same, 
To win by precept, by example warn. 
To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn, 
And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn. 



IV. 

cm BONO? 

BY LORD B. 



I. 

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, 
The restless soul is driven abroad to roam ; ^ 
Sated abroad, all seen yet nought admired. 
The restless soul is driven to ramble home ; 
Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome 
The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine, 
There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome, 
Scorning to view fantastic Columbine, 
Viewing with scorn and hate "the nonsense of the Nine.^ 

II. 

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way 
To gaze on puppets in a painted dome, 
Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray. 
Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom, 
What seek ye here ? Joy's evanescent bloom ? 
Woe 's me ! the brightest wreaths she ever gave 
Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb. 
Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave, 
Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave. 

III. 
Has life so little store of real woes. 
That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief? 



GUI BONO? 809 

Or is it that from truth such anguish flo-ws, 
Ye court the lying drama for relief? 
Long shall je find the pang, the respite brief: 
Or if one tolerable page appears 
In follj's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf, 
Who dries his own bj drawing others' tears, 
And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years. 

IV. 
Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee ! 
Light as the moat that danceth in the beam, 
He liveth only in man's present e'e ; 
His life a flash, his memory a dream, 
Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream. 
Yet what are they, the learned and the great ? 
Awhile of longer wonderment the theme ! 
Who shall presume to prophesy their date. 
Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate ? 

V. 
This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil. 
Perchance than Holland's edifice^ more fleet. 
Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil ; 
The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat, 
And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet ! 
Start ye ? perchance Death's angel may be sent, 
Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat ; 
And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent, 
May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument. 

VI. 
Your debts mount high — ^ye plunge in deeper waste ; 
The tradesman duns — no warning voice ye hear ; 
The plaintiff sues — to public shows ye haste ; 
The bailiff threats — ye feel no idle fear. 



310 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Who can arrest your prodigal career ? 
Who can keep down the levity of youth ? 
What sound can startle age's stubborn ear? 
Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth 
Men true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth ? 

VII. 

To thee, blest saint ! who doffed thy skin to make 
The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy, 
We dedicate the pile — arise ! awake ! — 
Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy, 
Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy, 
Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth 
Vv'^ith cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy ; 
While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth, ^ 
Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a 
booth. 

VIII. 

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March ? 
And W'hat is Brutus, but a croaking owl ? 
And what is Rolla ? Cupid steeped in starch, 
Orlando's helmet in Augustin's cowl. 
Shakespeare, how true thine adage, "fair is foul!" 
To him whose soul is w^ith fruition fraught, 
The song of Braham is an Irish howl. 
Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, 
And nought is everything, and everything is nought. 

IX. 

Sons of Parnassus ! whom I view above. 
Not laurel-crown'd, but clad in rusty black ; 
Not spurring Pegasus through Tempe's grove, 
But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack ; 



GUI BONO? 311 

What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack, 
Ye mar to make again ! for sure, ere long, 
Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanction'd track, 
Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, 
And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song. 



So fares the follower in the Muses' train ; 
He toils to starve, and only lives in death ; 
We slight him, till our patronage is vain, 
Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe, 
And o'er his bones an empty requiem breathe — 
Oh ! with what tragic horror would he start, 
(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath) 
To find the stage again a Tnespian cart. 
And elephants and colts down trampling Shakespeare's 
art. 

XI. 

Hence, pedant Nature ! with thy Grecian rules ! 
Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface ; 
Back, sister Muses, to your native schools ; 
Here booted grooms usurp Apollo's place, 
Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace, 
The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit, 
Man yields the drama to the Hou'yn'm race, 
His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit, 
The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit. 

XII. 

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode ? 
Is it for these your superstition seeks 
To build a temple worthy of a god. 
To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks ! 



312 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks, 
A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks, 
Where Punch, the lignum-vitae Roscius, squeaks, 
And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays his pranks, 
And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks. 



V. 



THE SECRETARY OF THE MANAG-ING COMMITTEE 
OF DRURY-LANE PLAYHOUSE. 



Sir, 

To the gewgaw fetters of rhyme (invented by 
the monks to enslave the people) I have a rooted objec- 
tion. I have therefore written an address for your 
Theatre in plain, homespun, yeoman's j)rose ; in the 
doing whereof I hope I am swayed by nothing but an 
independent wish to open the eyes of this gulled people, 
to prevent a repetition of the dramatic hmnhoozling 
they have hitherto laboured under. If you like what I 
have done, and mean to make use of it, I do n't want 
any such aristocratic reward as a piece of plate with 
two griffins sprawling upon it, or a dog and a jackass 
fighting for a ha' p' worth of r/ilt gingerbread, or any 
such Bartholomew-fair nonsense. All I ask is that the 
door-keepers of your playhouse may take all the sets of 
my Register^ now on hand, and force every body who 
enters your doors to buy one, giving afterwards a debtor 
and creditor account of what they have received, post- 
paid, and in due course remitting me the money and 
unsold Registers, carriage-paid. 

I am, &c. 

W. C. 
14 



314 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

IN THE CHARACTER OF 

A HAMPSHIRE FARMER. 



-" Rabida qui concitus ira 



Implevit pariter temis latratibus auras, 

Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agros." — Otid. 

Most thinking People, 

When persons address an audience from the stage, it is 
usual, either in words or gesture, to say, " Ladies and 
Gentlemen, your servant." If I were base enough, 
mean enough, paltry enough, and brute beast enough, 
to folloAV that fashion, I should tell two lies in a breath. 
In the first place, you are not Ladies and Gentlemen,. , 
but I hope something better, that is to say, honest men 
and women ; and in the next place, if you were ever so 
much ladies, and ever so much gentlemen, I am not, 
nor ever will be, your humble servant. You see me 
here, most thinkmg people^ by mere chance. I have 
not been within the doors of a playhouse before for 
these ten years ; nor, till that abominable custom of 
taking money at the doors is discontinued, wall I ever 
sanction a theatre with my presence. The stage-door is 
the only gate of freedom in the whole edifice, and 
through that I made my way from Bagshaw's' in 
Brydges Street, to accost you. Look about you. Are 
you not all comfortable ? Nay, never slink, mun ; 
speak out, if you are dissatisfied, and tell me so before I 
leave town. You are now, (thanks to Mr. Whitbread), 
got into a large, comfortable house. Not into a gim- 
crack palace ; not into a Solomon^ s temple; not into a 
frost- wo3'l: of Brobdignag fihgree; but into a plain, 



HAMPSHIRE farmer's ADDRESS. 315 

honest, homely, industrious, wholesome, brown brick 
playhouse. You have been struggling for indepen- 
dence and elbow-room these three years : and who gave 
it you? Who helped you out of Lilliput? Who 
routed you from a rat-hole, five inches by four, to perch 
you in a palace? Again and again I answer, Mr. 
Whitbread. You might have sweltered in that place 
with the Greek name^ till doomsday, and neither Lord 
Castlereagh^ Mr. Canning., no, nor the Marquess 
Wellesley, would have turned a trowel to help you out ! 
Remember that. Never forget that. Read it to your 
children, and to your children's children ! And now, 
most thinking 2)<^ople, cast your eyes over my head to 
what the builder, (I beg his pardon, the architect,) calls 
the proscenium. No motto, no slang, no popish Latin, 
to keep the people in the dark. No veluti in speculwn. 
Nothing in the dead languages, properly so called, for 
they ought to die, ay and be damned to boot ! The 
Covent Garden manager tried that, and a pretty business 
he made of it ! V^hen a man says veluti in speculum,, 
he is called a man of letters. Very well, and is not a 
man who cries 0. P. a man of letters too? Y'^ou ran 
your 0. P. against his veluti i?i specu.hmi, and pray 
which beat ? I prophesied that, though I never told any 
body. I take it for granted, that every intelligent man, 
woman, and child, to whom I address myself, has stood 
severally and respectively in Little Russell Street, and 
cast their, his, her, and its eyes on the outside of this 
building before they paid their money to view the inside. 
Look at the brick-work, English Audiejice ! Look at 
the brick- work ! All plain and smooth like a quakers' 
meeting. None of your Egyptian pyramids, to entomb 
subscribers' capitals. No overgrown colonnades of 
stone,* like an alderman's gouty legs in white cotton 



316 KEJECTED ADDRESSES. 

stockings, fit only to use as rammers for paving Totten- 
ham Court Road. This house is neither after the model 
of a temple in Athens, no, nor a temph in Moorfields, 
but it is built to act English plajs in ; and, provided you 
have good scenery, dresses, and decorations, I daresay 
you wouldn't break your hearts if the outside was as 
plain as the pikestaff I used to carry when I was a ser- 
geant. Aprojws, as the French valets say, who cut their 
masters' throats'^ — apropos, a word about dresses. You 
must, many of you, have seen what I have read a 
description of, Kemble and Mrs. Siddons in Macbeth, 
with more gold and silver plastered on their doublets 
than would have kept an honest family in butcher's 
meat and flannel from year's end to year's end ! I am 
informed, (now mind, I do not vouch for the fact), but 
I am informed that all such extravagant idleness is to be 
done away with here. Lady Macbeth is to have a plain 
quilted petticoat, a cotton gown, and a mob cap (as the 
court parasites call it ; — it will be well for them, if, one 
of these days, they do n't wear a mob cap — I mean a 
whife cap, with a mob to look at them) ; and INIacbeth 
is to appear in an honest yeoman's drab coat, and a pair 
of black calamanco breeches. Not ^«/amanca ; no, nor 
Talavera neither, my most Noble Marquess ; but plain, 
honest, black calamanco stuff breeches. This is right ; 
this is as it should be. Most thinking people, I have 
heard you much abused. There is not a compound in 
the language but is strung fifty in a rope, like onions, 
by the Morning Post, and hurled in your teeth. You 
are called the mob, and when they have made you 
out to be the mob, you are called the scuTn of the 
people, and the dregs of the people. I should like to 
know how you can be both. Take a basin of broth — not 
cheap soup, Mr, Wilberforce — not soup for the poor, 



HAMPSHIRE farmer's ADDRESS. 31T 

at a penny a quart, as jour mixture of horses' legs, 
brick-dust, and old shoes, was denominated — but plain, 
wholesome, patriotic beef or mutton broth ; take this, 
examine it, and you will find — mind, I don't vouch for 
the fact, but I am told — you will find the dregs at the 
bottom, and the scum at the top. I will endeavour to 
explain this to you : England is a large earthenware 
•pipkin ; John Bull is the heef thrown into it ; taxes 
are the hot water he boils in ; rotten boroughs are the 
fuel that blazes under this same pipkin; parliament is 
the ladle that stirs the hodge-podge, and sometimes 

. But, hold ! I do n't wish to pay Mr. Newmar^ 

a second visit. I leave you better ofi' than you have 
been this many a day : you have a good house over 
your head ; you have beat the French in Spain ; the 
harvest has turned out well ; the comet keeps its dis- 
tance -^ and red slippers are hawked about Constan- 
tinople for next to nothing ; and for all this, again and 
again I tell you, you are indebted to Mr. Whit- 
bread ! ! ! 



VI. 
THE LIVING LUSTRES. 

BY T. M. 



"Jam te juvaverit 
Viros relinquere, 
Docteeque conjugis 
Sinu quiescere." 

SiK T. MOEE. 



I. 

WHY should our dull retrospective addresses 
Fall damp as wet blankets on Drurj Lane fire ? 

Away with blue devils, away with distresses, 
And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire ! 

II. 
Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury, 

The richest to me is when woman is there ; 
The question of houses I leave to the jury ) 

The fairest to me is the house of the fair, 

III. 
When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders, 

And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart. 
What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders ? 

With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art? 

IV. 

How well would our actors attend to their duties, 
Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, 

In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties 

Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit I 



THE LIVING LUSTRES. 319 

V. 

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge 
By woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize, 

To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college — 
I mean the love-apples that hloom in the eyes. 

VI. 
There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling, 

Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair; 
For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling, 

Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair. 

VII. 

Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes 
Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile I 

And flourish, ye pillars,' as green as the rushes 
That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle ! 

VIII. 

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean. 

Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave, 
Whose sons, unaccustomed to rebel commotion, 

Tho' joyous, are sober — tho' peaceful, are brave. 

IX. 

The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel. 
Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows ; 

Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel, 
Which flourishes rapidly over their brows. 

X. 

! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles 
Which each panting bosom indignantly names, 

Until not one goose at the capital cackles 

Against the grand question of Catholic claims. 



320 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

XI. 

And then shall each Paddj, who once on the Liffy 
Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoj, 

Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy 
More fishes than ever he caught when a boy. 

XII. 

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows, 
In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock. 

When bred to our bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows, 
Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock. 

XIII. 

For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune, 
As Dian outshines each encircling star ; 

And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune 
Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh i 



VII. 

THE REBUILDING. 

BY R. S. 

' Per audaces nova dithjTambos 



Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur 
Lege solutis." HoBAT. 

[^Spoken by a Glendoveer.] 

I AM a blessed Glendoveer :^ 
'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear. 

Midnight, yet not a nose 
From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored ! 

Midnight, yet not a nose 
From Indra drew the essence of repose ! 
See with what crimson fury. 
By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls of 
Drury ! 

Tops of houses, blue with lead, 
Bend beneath the landlord's tread. 
Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord, 
Nailor and tailor, 
Grazier and brazier. 
Through streets and alleys pour'd — 
All, all abroad to gaze. 
And wonder at the blaze. 
Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee. 
Mounted on roof and chimney,^ 
The mighty roast, the mighty stew 
14* 



322 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

To see ; 

As if the dismal view 

"Were but to them a Brentford juL:lee. 

Vainly, all-radiant Surja, sire of Phaeton 

(By Greeks call'd Apollo") 

Hollow 

Sounds from thy harp proceed; 

Combustible as reed. 

The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs : 

From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs, 

Thou tumblest, 

Humblest, 

Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high ; 

While, by thy somerset, excited, fly 

Ten million 

Billion 

Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky. 

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires : 
To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run, 
Hope gallops first, and second Sun ; 
On flying heel. 
See Hand-in-Hand 
O'ertake the band ! 
View with what glowing wheel 
He nicks 
Phoenix ! 
While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Black- 
friars— 
Drury Lane ! Drury Lane ! 
Drury Lane ! Drury Lane ! 
They shout and they bellow again and again. 
All, all in vain ! 



THE REBUILDING. 323 

Water turns steam ; 

Each blazing beam 

Hisses defiance to the eddying spout ; 

It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out ! 

Drurj Lane ! Drurj Lane 

See, Drurj Lane expires. 

Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, 

Shorn of his ray, 

Surya in durance lay : 

The workmen heard him shout. 

But thought it would not pay, 

To dig him out. 

When lo ! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, 

Solemn as lead, 

Judge of the dead, 

Sworn foe to witticism, 

By men call'd criticism, 

Came passing by that way : 

Rise I cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness ! 

Behold the rival theatre ! 

I 've set 0. P. at her,* 

Who, like a bull-dog bold, 

Growls and fastens on his hold. 

The many-headed rabble roar in madness ; 

Thy rival staggers : come and spy her 
Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. 
So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, 
And crossing Russell Street, 
He placed him on his feet 
'Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound, 
As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose : 
Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, 
Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes. 



324 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch,* 
Ran echoing round the walls ; paper placards 
Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches ; 
A sea of heads roll'd roaring in the pit ; 
On paper wings 0. P.'s 
Reclin'd in lettered ease ; 
While shout and scoflf, 
Ya! ya! off! off! 
Like thunderbolt on Surja's ear-drum fell, 
And seemed to paint 
The savage oddities of Saint 
Bartholomew in hell. 

Tears dimm'd the god of light — 

" Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; 

Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick, 

Oh ! bury me again in brick ; 

Shall I on New Drury tremble, 

To be 0. P.'dlike Kemble? 

No, 

Better remain by rubbish guarded. 

Than thus hubbubish groan placarded ; 

Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, 

And bury me again in brick." 

Obedient Yamen 

Answered "■ Amen," 

And did 

As he was bid. 

There lay the buried god, and Time 

Seemed to decree eternity of lime ; 

But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest 

Almighty Veeshnoo's*^ adamantine breast : 



THE REBUILDING. 325 

He, the preserver, ardent still 

To do whate'er he says he will, 

From South-hill wing'd his way, 

To raise the drooping lord of day. 

All earthly spells the busy one o'erpower'd ; 

He treats with men of all conditions, 
Poets and players, tradesmen, and musicians; 
Nay, even ventures 
To attack the renters, 
Old and new : 
A list he gets 
Of claims and debts, 
And deems nought done, while aught remains to do. 

Yamen beheld, and wither' d at the sight ; 
Long had he aim'd the sunbeam to control, 
For light was hateful to his soul : 
" Go on !" cried the hellish one, yellow with spite ; 
" Go on !" cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen, 
"Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen, 
I'll toil to undo every night." 

Ye sons of song, rejoice ! 
Veeshnoo has stilled the jarring elements, 
The spheres hymn music ; 
Again the god of day 
Peeps forth with trembling ray. 
Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine, 
And pours at intervals a strain divine. 
"I have an iron yet in the fire," cried Yamen; 
" The vollied flame rides in my breath, 
My blast is elemental death ; 
This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces ; 
Ingress your deeds, assignments, leases, 



326 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

My breath shall every line erase 
Soon as I blow the blaze." 

The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor, 
And Yamen'3 visage grows blanker and blanker; 
The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown, 
And Yamen"s cheek is a russety brown : 
Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds ; 
The solicitor reads, 
And, merit of merit ! 
Red wax and green ferret 
Are fixed at the foot of the deeds ! 

Yamen beheld and shiver'd ; 
His finger and thumb were cramp'd ; 
His ear by the flea in 't was bitten. 
When he saw by the lawyer's clerk written, 
Sealed and delivered, 
Being fii-st duly stamped. 

" Now for my turn !" the demon cries, and blows 
A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose. 
Ah ! bootless aim ! the critic fiend. 
Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell, 
Is judged in his turn ; 
Parchment won't burn ! 
His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in air, 
Parchment Avon't tear 1 ! 

Is it not written in the Himakoot book, 
(That mighty Baly from Kehama took) 
" Who blows on pounce 
Must the Swerga renounce ?' ' 
It is ! it is ! Yamen, thine hour is nigh ; 



THE REBUILDING. 327 

Like as an eagle claws an asp, 
Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp, 
And hurl'd him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls. 
Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain. 
Three times as high as Meru mountain, 

Which is 
Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul's. 

Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew, 

Who a durable grave meant 
To dig in the pavement 

Of Monument-yard: 
To earth by the laws of attraction he flew, 

And he fell, and he fell 

To the regions of hell ; 
Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock. 
And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock, 
Like a pebble in Carisbrook well. 

Now Veeshnoo turn'd round to a capering varlet, 
Array'd in blue and white and scarlet, 
And cried, " Oh ! brown of slipper as of hat ! 
Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!" 
He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth ; 
When lo ! upstarting into birth 
A fabric, gorgeous to behold. 
Outshone in elegance the old. 
And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, "Hail, playhouse mine!" 
Then, bending his head, to Surya he said : 

" Soon as thy maiden sister Di 
Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky, 
And through the fissures of her clouded fan 
Peeps at the naughty monster man. 



328 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Go mount yon edifice, 
And show thy steady face 
In renovated pride, 
More bright, more glorious than before!" 
But ah ! coy Surya still felt a twinge, 
Still smarted from his former singe ; 
And to Veeshnoo replied, 
In a tone rather grufi, 
" No, thank you ! one tumble 's enough!'* 



VIII. 
DRURY'S DIRGE. 

BY LAURA MATILDA.' 



"Yon praise onr sires: but though they wrote with force 
Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse : 
"We want their strength, agreed ; but we atone 
For that, and more, by sweetness all our own."— Giffoed. 

I. 

Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, 
Shade me with your azure wino- • 

On Parnassus' summit sittino-. 
Aid me, Clio, while I sing. 

II. 

Softly slept the dome of Drury 

O'er the empyreal crest, 
When Alecto's sister-fury 

Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest. 

III. 
Lo ! from Lemnos limping lamely, 

Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, 
Cytherea yielding tamely 

To the Cyclops dark and dire. 

IV. 

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, 
Dulcet joys and sports of youth, 

Soon must yield to haughty sadness ; 
Mercy holds the veil to Truth. 



330 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

V. 

See Erostratus the second 

Fires again Diana's fane; 
Bj the Fates from Orcus beckon'd, 

Clouds envelope Drurj Lane. 

VI. 
Lurid smoke and frank suspicion 

Hand in hand reluctant dance ; 
While the God fulfils his mission, 

Chivakj, resign thy lance. 

VII. 
Hark ! the engines blandly thunder, 

Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie, 
And the firemen, mute with wonder, 

On the son of Saturn cry. 

VIII. 

See the bird of Ammon sailing, 
Perches on the engine's peak, 

And, the Eagle firemen hailing. 

Soothes them with its bickering beak. 

IX. 

Juno saw, and mad with malice, 
Lost the prize that Paris gave : 

Jealousy's ensanguined chalice, 
Mantling pours the orient wave. 

X. 
Pan beheld Patroclus dying, 

Nox to Niobe was turn'd; 
From Busiris Bacchus flying, 

Saw his Semele inurn'd. 



drury's dirge. 331 

XL 

Thus fell Drurj's loftj glory, 

Leveird with the shuddering stones ; 

Mars, with tresses black and gory, 
Drinks the dew of pearly groans. 

XII. 
Hark ! what soft Eolian numbers 

Gem the blushes of the mom ! 
Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, 

Nature's ringlets deck the thorn. 

XIII. 

Ha ! I hear the strain erratic 

Dimly glance from pole to pole ; 
Eaptui-es sweet and dreams ecstatic 

Fire my everlasting soul. 

XIV, 
Where is Cupid's crimson motion? 

Billowy ecstasy of woe, 
Bear me straight, meandering ocean, 

Where the stagnant torrents flow. 

XV. 
Blood in every vein is gushino-. 

Vixen vengeance lulls my heart ; 
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing ! 

Never, never let us part ! 



IX. 

A TALE OF DRURY LANE. 

BV "W. S. 



" Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his 
books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very 
phrase." — Don Quixote.i 

[lb he spoken hy Mr. Kemhlej in a suit of the Black Prince's 
armour, borrowed from the Tower.] 

Survey this shield, all bossy bright — 
These cuisses twain behold ! 
Look on my form in armour dight 
Of steel inlaid with gold ; 
My knees are stiff in iron buckles, 
Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. 
These once belonged to sable prince, 
Who never did in battle wince ; 
With valour tart as pungent quince, 

He slew the vaunting Gaul. 
Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, 
While from green curtain I advance 
To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance, ^ 
And tell the town what sad mischance 

Did Drury Lane befall. 

On fair Augusta's towers and trees 
Flitted the silent midnight breeze, 
Curling the foliage as it past 
Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast 



A TALE OF DRURY LANE. 333 

A spangled light, like dancing spray, 

Then re-assumed its still array ; 

When, as night's lamp unclouded hung. 

And down its full effulgence flung, 

It shed such soft and balmy power 

That cot and castle, hall and bower, 

And spire and dome, and turret height, 

Appeared to slumber in the light. 

From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall. 

To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul; 

From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, 

To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown, 

No voice was heard, no eye unclosed. 

But all in deepest sleep reposed. 

They might have thought, who gazed around 

Amid a silence so profound. 

It made the senses thrill, 
That 'twas no place inhabited, 
But some vast city of the dead — 

All was so hushed and still. 

®l)c Burning. 
As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom, 
Had slept in everlasting gloom. 
Started with terror and surprise 
When light first flashed upon her eyes — 
So London's sons in nightcap woke. 

In bed-gown woke her dames; 
For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, 
And twice ten hundred voices spoke — 

" The playhouse is in flames !" 
And, lo ! where Catherine Street extends, 
A fiery tail its lustre lends 

To every window-pane ; 



334 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, 
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, 
And Covent garden kennels sport, 

A bright ensanguined drain ; 
Meux's new Brewhouse shows the light, 
Rowland Hill's Chapel, and the height 

Where Patent Shot thej sell ; 
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, 
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, 
The Ticket-Porters' House of Call, 
Old Bedlam, close hj London Wall,^ 
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal. 

And Richardson's Hotel. 
Nor these alone, but far and wide, 
Across red Thames's gleaming tide. 
To distant fields, the blaze was borne, 
And daisy white and hoary thorn 
In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham 
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am. 
To those who on the hills around 
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound. 

As fii'om a lofty altar rise. 
It seem'd that nations did conspire 
I'd offer to the God of fire 

Some vast stupendous sacrifice! 
The sammon'd firemen woke at call. 
And hied them to their stations all : 
Starting from short and broken snooze, 
Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes, 
But first his worsted hosen plied, 
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, 

His nether bulk embraced ; 
Then jacket thick, of red or blue, 



A TALE OP DRURY LANE. 335 

Whose massy shoulder gave to view 
The badge of each respective crew, 

In tin or copper traced. 
The engines thundered through the street, 
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete. 
And torches glared, and clattering feet 

Along the pavement paced. 
And one, the leader of the band, 
From Charing Cross along the Strand, 
Like stag by beagles hunted hard. 
Ran till he stopp'd at Vin'gar Yard.^ 
The burning badge his shoulder bore, 
The belt and oil-skin hat he Avore, 
The cane he had, his men to bang, 
Show'd foreman of the British gang — 
His name was Higginbottom. Now 
'Tis meet that I should tell you how 

The others came in view : 
The Hand-in-Hand-the race beg-an,^ 
Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, 
Th' Exchange, where old insurers run, 

The Eagle, where the new ; 
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, 
Robins from Hockley in the Hole, 
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, 

Crump from St. Giles's Pound : 
Whitford and Mitford joined the train, 
Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, 
And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain 

Before the plug was found. 
Hobson and Jobson did not sleep. 
But ah ! no trophy could they reap. 
For both were in the Donjon Keep 

Of Bridewell's gloomy mound ! 



336 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

E'en Higginbottom now was posed, 
For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed ; 
Without, within, in hideous show, 
Devouring flames resistless glow, 
And blazing rafters downward go. 
And never halloo " Heads below !" 

Nor notice give at all. 
The firemen terrified are slow 
To bid the pumping torrent flow. 

For fear the roof should fall. 
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! 
Whitford, keep near the walls ! 
Huggins, regard your own behoof, 
t'or, lo ! the blazing rocking roof 
Down, down, in thunder falls ! 
An awful pause succeeds the stroke, 
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke. 
Rolling around its pitchy shroud, 
Conceard them from th' astonish' d crowd. 
At length the mist awhile was clear'd, 
When, lo ! amid the wreck uprear'd. 
Gradual a moving head appear' d. 

And Eagle firemen knew 
'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, 

The foreman of their crew, 
Loud shouted all in signs of woe, 
"A Muggins ! to the rescue, ho !" 

And pour'd the hissing tide : 
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, 
And strove and struggled all in vain, 
For, rallying but to fall again. 

He totter' d, sunk, and died ! 

Did none attempt, before he fell, 
To succour one they loved so well ? 



A TALE OF DRURY LANE. 837 

Yes, Higginbottora did aspire 
(His fireman's soul was all on fire), 

His brother chief to save ; 
But ah ! his reckless generous ire 

Served but to share his grave ! 
'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, 
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, 

Where Muggins broke before. 
But sulphry stench and boiling drench 
Destroying sight o'erwhelm'd him quite. 

He sunk to rise no more. 
Still o'er his head, -while Fate he braved. 
His whizzing water-pipe he waved; 
" Whitford and Mitford, plj your pumps, 
"You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps, 
" Why are you in such doleful dumps? 
" A fireman, and afraid of bumps !— 
" What are they fear'd on? fools ! 'od rot 'em !" 
Were the last words of Higginbottom. 

^\)c tlcmoal. 
Peace to his soul ! new prospects bloom, 
And toil rebuilds what fires consume ! 
Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, 
" Joy to the managing committee !" 
Eat we and drink we, join to rum 
Roast beef and pudding of the plum ; 
Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, 
With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, 

For this is Drury's gay day ; 
Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, 
And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, 
Crisp parliament with lollypops, 

And fingers of the Lady. 
15 



338 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Didst mark, how toird the busj train, 
From morn to eve, till Drurj Lane 
Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain ? 
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, 

And nimble workmen trod ; 
To reahse bold Wyatt's plan 
Rush'd many a howling Irishman ; 
Loud clatter' d many a porter-can, 
And many a ragamuffin clan 

With trowel and with hod. 

Drury revives ! her rounded pate 
Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate ; 
She " wings the midway air" elate, 

As magpie, crow, or chough ; 
White paint her modish visage smears, 
Yellow and pointed are her ears, 
No pendant portico appears 
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears^ 

Have cut the bauble off 

Yes, she exalts her stately head ; 
And, but that solid bulk outspread, 
Opposed you on your onward tread, 
And posts and pillars warranted 
That all was true that Wyatt said, 
You might have deem'd her walls so thick 
Were not composed of stone or brick. 
But all a phantom, all a trick. 
Of brain disturb' d and fancy sick, 
So high she soars, so vast, so quick ! 



X. 

JOHNSON'S GHOST. 



[ Ghost of Dr. Johnson rises from trap-door P. S., and Ghost of 
BoswELL from trap-door 0. P. The latter bows respectfully to 
the House, and obsequiously to the Dodofs Ghost, and retires.'] 

Doctor's Gnosx loquitur. 

That w-iich was organised bj the moral ability of one 
has been executed bj the physical efforts of many, and 
Drury Lane Theatre is now complete. Of that 
part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined 
to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or viprate to 
the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the 
public, ancl little need be said by the committee. Truth, 
however, is not to be sacrificed for the accommodation 
of either ; and he who should pronounce that our edifice 
has received its final embellishment would be dissemin- 
ating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking 
the disgrace of detection without participating the 
advantage of success. 

Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously veri- 
fied are ahke inconsistent with the precepts of innate 
rectitude and the practice of external policy : let it not 
then be conjectured, that because we are unassuming, 
we are imbecile ; that forbearance is any indication of 
despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the 
most assured of success will make the fewest appeals to 
favour, and where nothing is claimed that is undue, 



340 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling open- 
ing is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. 
Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular 
abortions ; and the auditor who compares incipient gran- 
deur with final vulgarity is reminded of the pious hawkers 
of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, 
exclaiming, " In the name of the Prophet — figs !" 

Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who 
are thought wise by others, the exertions are directed to 
the revival of mouldering and obscure dramas ; to en- 
deavours to exalt that which is now rare only because it 
was always worthless, and whose deterioration, while it 
condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity 
of moral perception constitutes its title to posthumous 
renown. To embody the flying colours of folly, to 
arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the globular con- 
sistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the pie- 
bald denizen of the stable, and the half-reasoning parent 
of combs, to display the brisk locomotion of Columbine, 
or the tortuous attitudinising of Punch ; — th*ese are the 
occupations of others, whose ambition, limited to the 
applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for 
the application of satire, and too humble for the incite- 
ment of jealousy. 

Our refectory will be found to contain every species 
of fruit, from the cooling nectarine and luscious peach 
to the puny pippin and the noxious nut. There In- 
dolence may repose, and Inebriety revel ; and the spruce 
apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there 
chatter with impunity ; debarred, by a barrier of brick 
and mortar, from marring that scenic interest in others, 
which nature and education have disqualified him from 
comprehending himself. 

Permanent stage-doors we have none. That which is 



JOHNSON'S GHOST. 341 

permanent cannot be removed, for, if removed, it soon 
ceases to be permanent. What stationary absurdity can 
vie with the ligneous barricade, which, decorated with 
frappant and tintinnabulant appendages, now serves as 
the entrance of the lowly cottage, and now as the exit 
of a lady's bedchamber; at one time, insinuating plastic 
Harlequin into a butcher's shop, and, at another, yawn- 
ing as a flood-gate, to precipitate the Cyprians of St. 
Giles's into the embraces of Macheath. To elude this 
glaring absurdity, to give each respective mansion the 
door which the carpenter would doubtless have given, 
we vary our portal with the varying scene, passing from 
deal to mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the 
opposite claims of cottage, palace, or castle, may appear 
to require. 

Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters 
us in front, it is fit that some regard should be paid to 
the murmurs of despondence that assail us in the rear. 
They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, "who live to 
please," should not have their own pleasures entirely 
overlooked. The children of Thespis are general in 
their censures of the architect, in having placed the 
locality of exit at such a distance from the oily irradia- 
tors which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses 
you. I am, cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my 
fair proportions. When the king-killing Thane hints to 
the breathless auditory the murders he means to per- 
petrate, in the castle of JNIacduff, " ere his purpose cool ;" 
so vast is the interval he has to travel before he can 
escape from the stage, that his purpose has even time to 
freeze. Your condition, cries the Muse of Smiles, is 
hard, but it is cygnet's down in comparison with mine. 
The peerless peer of capers and congees' has laid it 
down as a rule, that the best good thing uttered by the 



342 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

morning visitor should conduct bim rapidly to the door- 
way, last impressions vj^ing in durability with first. 
But when, on this boarded elongation, it falls to my lot 
to say a good thing, to ejaculate, "keep moving," or 
to chant, " hie hoc horiim geniiivo,^' many are the 
moments that must elapse, ere I can hide myself from 
public vision in the recesses of 0. P. or P..S. 

To objections like these, captiously urged and queru- 
lously maintained, it is time that equity should conclu- 
sively reply. Deviation from scenic propriety has only 
to vituperate itself for the consequences it generates. 
Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line beyond 
which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause : 
let him reflect, that in proportion as ho advances to the 
lamps, he recedes from nature ; that the truncheon of 
Hotspur acquires no additional charm from encountering 
the cheek of beauty in the stage-box, and that the bra- 
vura of Mandane may produce effect, although the 
throat of her who warbles it should not overhang the 
orchestra. The Jove of the modern critical Olympus, 
Lord Mayor of the theatric sky," has, ex cathedra, 
asserted, that a natural actor looks upon the audience 
part of the theatre as the third side of the chamber he 
inhabits. Surely, of the third wall thus fancifully 
erected, our actors should, by ridicule or reason, be 
withheld from knocking their heads against the stucco. 

Time forcibly reminds me, that all things which have 
a limit must bo brought to a conclusion. Let me, ere 
that conclusion arrives, recall to your recollection, that 
the pillars which rise on either side of me, blooming in 
virid antiquity, like two massy evergreens, had yet 
slumbered in their native quarry, but for the ardent 
exertions of the individual who called them into life : to 
his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for what- 



JOHNSON', S GHOST. 343 

ever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to 
afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the 
destroyer of the temple of Diana yet survives in the 
name of Erostratus, surely we may confidently predict, 
that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand 
recorded to distant posterity in that of— Samuel Whit- 
bread. 



XI. 
THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY. 

BT THE HON. "W. S. 



Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas Vikqil. 

Scene draws, and discovers a Lady asleep on a couch. 
Enter PntLANDEB. 

PHILANDER 
I. 

Sobriety, cease to be sober, ^ 

Cease Labour, to dig and to delve ; 
All hail to this tenth of October, 

One thousand eight hundred and twelve !' 
Ha ! whom do xnj peepers remark ? 

'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug; 
no, 'tis the pride of the Park, 

Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg. 

II. 
Why, beautiful nymph, do you close 

The curtain that fringes your eye ? 
Why veil in the clouds of repose 

The sun that should brighten our sky ! 
Perhaps jealous Venus has oiled 

Your hair with some opiate drug, 
Not choosing her charms should be foiled 

By Lady Elizabeth IMugg. 



THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY. 345 

III. 

But ah ! why awaken the blaze 

Those bright-burning glasses contain, 
Whose lens with concentrated rays 

Proved fatal to old Drury Lane? 
'Twas all accidental, they cry — 

Away with the flimsy humbug ! 
'Twas fired by a flash from the eye 

Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg. 

IV. 
Thy glance can in us raise a flame, 

Then why should old Drury be free ? 
Our doom and its doom are the same, 

Both subject to beauty's decree. 
No candles the workmen consumed, 

When deep in the ruins they dug ; 
Thy flash still their progress illumed. 

Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg. 

V. 
Thy face a rich fire-place displays : 

The mantel-piece marble — thy brows; 
Thine eyes are the bright beaming blaze; 

Thy bib, which no trespass allows. 
The fender's tall barrier marks ; 

Thy tippet's the fire-quelling rug, 
Which serves to extinguish the sparks 

Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg. 

VI. 

The Countess a lily appears. 

Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss; 
The Marchioness, blooming in years, 

A rose-bud enveloped in moss; 
15* 



346 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

But thou art the sweet passion-flower, 
For who would not slavery hug. 

To pass but one exquisite hour, 
In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg? 

VII. 

When at court, or some Dowager's rout, 

Her diamond aigrette meets our view, 
She looks like a glow-worm dressed out, 

Or tulips bespangled with dew. 
Her two lips denied to man's suit, 

Are shared with her favourite Pug ; 
What lord would not change with the brute, 

To live with Elizabeth Mugg ? 

VIII. 
Could the stage be a large vis-a-vis, 

Reserved for the polished and great, 
Where each happy lover might see 

The nymph he adores tete-a-tete ; 
No longer I 'd gaze on the ground, 

And the load of despondency lug, 
For I 'd book myself all the year round. 

To ride with the sweet Lady INIugg. 

IX. 

Yes, she in herself is a host, 

And if she were here all alone, 
Our house might nocturnally boast 

A bumper of fashion and ton. 
Again should it burst in a blaze. 

In vain would they ply Congreve's plug,' 
For nought could extinguish the rays 

From the glance of divine Lady Mugg. 



THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY. 347 

X. 

could I as Harlequin frisk, 

And thou be my Columbine fair, 
My wand should with one magic whisk 

Transport us to Hanover Square : 
St. George's should lend us its shrine. 

The parson his shoulders might shrug, 
But a license should force him to join 

My hand in the hand of my Mugg. 

IX. 

Court-plaster the weapons should tip, 

By Cupid shot doAvn from above, 
Which, cut into spots for thy lip, 

Should still barb the arrows of love. 
The God who from others flies quick, 

With us should be slow as a slug ; 
As close as a leech he should stick 

To me and Elizabeth Mugg. 

X. 

For time would, with us, 'stead of sand, 

Put filings of steel in his glass. 
To dry up the blots of his hand. 

And spangle life's page as they pass. 
Since all flesh is grass ere 'tis hay.^ 

may I in clover live snug, 
And when old Time mows me away, 

Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg ! 



XII. 

FIEE AND ALE. 

BY JI. G. L. 



Omnia transformat sesc in miracula rerum. — ^Viegix. 

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, 

Awaj to Parnassus I'm beckoned ; 
List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed, 
I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, 

And the birth of Miss Drury the second. 

The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; 

He mounted his hot copper filly ; 
His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt 
Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt 

With the heat of the copper colt's belly. 

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his ! 

When an infant 'twas equally horrid ; 
For the water, when he was baptized, gave a fizz, 
And bubbled and simmerxl and started off, whizz ! 

As soon as it sprinkled its forehead. 

! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, 

For two living coals were the symbols ; 
His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry. 
It rattled against them, as though you should try 
To play the piano in thimbles. 



FIRE AND ALE. 349 

From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, 

Which scorches wherever it lingers ; 
A snivelling fellow he's call'd hy his foes, 
For he can't raise his paw up to blow his red nose, 

For fear it should blister his fingers. 

His wig is of flames curling over his head, 

Well powder'd Avith white smoking ashes ; 
He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead. 
Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread, 
Which black from the oven he gnashes. 

Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, 

'T would soon set her cheek bone a frying ; 
He spit in the Tenter-Ground near Spital-fields, 
And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields. 
Make a capital lime-kiln for drying. 

When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast, 

(Nota bene, I do not mean swearing,) 
But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, 
I 've heard it from those who have seen it, surpass'd 
A shot manufactory flaring. 

He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop' d to snatch 

His bride, little dreaming of danger ; 
His whip Avas a torch, and his spur was a match, 
And over the horse's left eye was a patch, 
To keep it from burning the manger. 

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral 

In his cinder-producing alliance? 
'Tis Drury-Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall, 
Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall. 

If she cannot set sparks at defiance. 



350 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll'd, 

And the housemaid his hand would have taken, 
But his hand, like his passion, was too lot to hold, 
And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold 
All melted, like butter or bacon ! 

Oh ! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might, 

For Vinegar Yard was before her ; 
But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, 
Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light. 

To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her. 

Look ! look ! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and starch, 

Whose votaries sco3-n to be sober ; 
He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch ; 
Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, 

And froths at the mouth in October. 

His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung ; 

He taps where the housemaid no more is, 
When lo ! at his magical bidding, upsprung 
A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy and young. 

And sported in loco sororis. 

Back, lurid in air, for a second regale. 

The Cinder King, hot with desire, 
!ro Bridges Street hied ; but the Monarch of Ale, 
With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail, 

Thus chided the Monarch of Fire : 

" Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew; 

I rule the roast here, dash the wig o' me ! 
If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you 
Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New, 

I '11 have you indicted for bigamy !" 



XIII. 

PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS. 

BY S. T. C. 



lUe velut fidis arcana sodalibus olira 

Credebat libris ; neque si male cesserat, usquam 

Decurrens alio, neque si bene. Hoe. 

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? 
I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey 
To carry to the mart her crockery ware, 
And when that donkey look'd me in the face, 
His face was sad ! and you are sad, my Public ! 

Joy should be yours : this tenth day of October 
Again assembles us in Drury Lane. 
Long wept my eye to see the timber planks 
That hid our ruins ; many a day I cried, 
Ah me ! I fear they never will rebuild it ! 
Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve. 
As along Charles Street I prepared to walk, 
Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's, 
I heard a trowel tick against a brick. 
I look'd me up, and straight a parapet 
Uprose at least seven inches o'er the pianks. 
Joy to thee, Drury ! to myself I said : 
'H# of Backfriars' P*,oad, who hymned thy downfall 
In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied 
That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, 



352 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

"Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, 
Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, 
As leisure offer 'd, .close to Mr. Spring's 
Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders. 
They had a plan to render less their labours ; 
Workmen in olden times vrould mount a ladder 
With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a pole 
From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley 
Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley ; 
To this a basket dangled ; mortar and bricks 
Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, 
And in the empty basket workmen twain 
Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth. 

Oh ! 'twas a goodly sound, to hear the people 
Who watch'd the work, express their various thoughts ! 
While some believed it never would be finish' d, 
Some, on the contrary, believed it would. 

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane 
Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick- work, 
A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. 
One of the morning papers wish'd that front 
Cemented like the front in Brydges Street ; 
As now it looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, 
A handsome woman with a fish's tail. 

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet Street : 
The Albion (as its name denotes) is white ; 
Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables 
Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun ; 
White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet 
Street, 



PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS. 353 

The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, 
Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face. 

^Oh, Mr. Whitbread ! fie upon you, sir ! 
I think you should have built a colonnade ; 
When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, 
Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower 
And draws the tippet closer round her throat, 
Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, 
And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud 
Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow, 
She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa 
Cries, " There you go ! this comes of playhouses !" 
To build no portico is penny wise : 
Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish ! 

Hail to thee, Drury ! Queen of Theatres ! 
What is the Regency in Tottenham Street, 
The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts, 
Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, 
Compared with thee ? Yet when I view thee push'd 
Back from the narrow street that christened thee, 
I know not Avhy they call thee Drury Lane. 

Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, 
It grieves me much to see live animals 
Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, 
Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig ; 
Fie on such tricks ! Johnson, the machinist 
Of former Drury, imitated life 
Quite to the life. The Elephant in Blue Beard, 
Stuff d by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis. 
As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba.^ 
Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands 



354 REJECTED ADDRESSES, 

I reverence the coachman who cries " Gee," 
And spares the lash. When I behold a spider 
Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, 
Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife 
Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, 
Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick ! 

[^Exit hastily. 



XIV. 

DRURY LANE HUSTINGS. 
^ lyfeto ?^alf|)cnns asailatr. 

BY A PIC-NIC POET. 

This is the very age of promise : To promise is most courtly and fashionable. 
Performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his 
judgment that makes it Timon of Athens. 



[To he sung by Mr, Johnstone in the character of Looney 

M 'TWOLTER.] 

I. 

Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me, 
So I gave him my card — no, that a'nt it, says he ; 
'Tis your public address. Oh ! says I, never fear, 
If address you are bother' d for, only look here. 

\.Piits on hat affectedly. 

Tol de rol lol, &c. 
II. 
With Drury's for sartin we '11 never have done. 
We ' ve built up another, and yet there 's but one ; 
The old one was best, yet I 'd say, if I durst. 
The new one is better — the last is the first. 

Tol de rol, &c. 
III. 
These pillars are call'd by a Frenchified word, 
A something that's jumbled of antique and verd ; 
The boxes may show us some verdant antiques. 
Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks. 

Tol de rol, &c. 



356 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 



IV. 



Onlj look how high Tragedy, Comedy, stick, 
Lest their rivals, the horses, should give them a kick ! 
If you will not descend when our authors beseech ye. 
You '11 stop there for life, for I 'm sure they can 't 
reach ye. 

Tol de rol, &c. 



Each one shilling god within the reach Ox a nod is, 
And plain are the charms of each gallery goddess — 
You, Brandy-faced Moll, don't be looking askew, 
When I talked of a goddess I didn't mean you. 

Tol de rol, &c. 

VI. 

Our stage is so prettily fashion'd for viewing, 
The whole house can see what the whole house is doing : 
'Tis just like the Hustings, we kick up a bother ; 
But saying is one thing, and doing's another. 

Tol de rol, &c. 

VII. 

We 've many new houses, and some of them rum ones, 
But the newest of all is the new House of Commons; 
'Tis a rickety sort of a bantling, I 'm told, 
It will die of old age when it 's seven years old. 

Tol de rol, &c. 

VIII. 

As I don't know on whom the election will fall, 
I move in return for returning them all ; 
But for fear Mr. Speaker my meaning should miss, 
The house that I wish 'em to sit in is this. 

Tol de rol, &c. 



DRURY LANE HUSTINGS. 867 

IX. 

Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose aid 
We all should have gone with short commons to bed ; 
And since he has saved all the fat from the fire, 
I move that the house be oall'd Whitbread's Entire.' 

Tol de rolj &c. 



XV. 
AECHITECTURAL ATOMS. 

TRANSLATED BY DR. B. 



Lege, Dick, Lege ! — Joseph ANDKEwa 
To be recited by the Translator's Son. 

Away, fond dupes ! who, smit with sacred lore, 
Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore, 
Doat with Copernicus, or darkling stray 
With Newton, Ptomlej, or Tycho Brahe ! 
To you I sing not, for I sing of truth, 
Primeval systems, and creation's youth ; 
Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught, 
Inspired Lucretius to the Latians taught. 

I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb, 
Encounter'd casual cow-hair, casual lime ; 
How rafters, borne through wondering clouds elate, 
Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate, 
Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury, 
And gave to birth our renovated Drury. 

Thee, son of Jove ! whose sceptre was confess'd, 
Where fair ^olia springs from Tethys' breast; 
Thence on Olympus, 'mid celestials placed, 
God of the Winds, and Ether's boundless "v^aste — 
Thee I invoke ! Oh piiff my bold design, [line; 

Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious 



ARCHITECTUKAL ATOMS. 359 

Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire 
With Winsor's ^ patent gas, or wind of fire, 
In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroU'd, 
The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold. 

But, while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun 
The deprecated prize Ulysses won ; 
Who, sailing homeward from the breezy shore, 
The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore. 
Speeds the fleet bark till o'er the billows green 
The azure heights of Ithaca are seen ; 
But while with favouring gales her way she wins, 
His curious comrades ope the mystic skins ; 
When, lo ! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep, 
Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep ; 
Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast. 
Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast. 
Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides. 
Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides. 
While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly, 
And sleep not in the whole skins they untie. 

So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries, 
Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes ; 
On speeds the smiling suit — " Pleas of our Lord 
The King" shine sable on the wide record; 
Nods the prunella'd bar, attorneys smile. 
And syren jurors flatter to beguile ; 
Till stript — nonsuited— he is doomed to toss 
In legal shipwreck and redeemless loss ! 
Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keep. 
His head above the waters of the deep. 

^olian monarch ! Emperor of Puffs ! 
We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs ; 



3G0 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

See to thj golden shore promiscuous come 

Quacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb ; 

Fools are their bankers — a prolific line, 

And every mortal malady ' s a mine. 

Each slj Sangrado, with his poisonous pill. 

Flies to the printer's devil with his bill, 

Whose Midas touch can gild his ass's ears, 

And load a knave Avith folly's rich arrears. 

And lo ! a second miracle is thine. 

For sloe-juice Avater stands transformed to wine. 

Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd, 

Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold ; 

Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealth. 

Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth. 

See Britain's Algerincs, the lottery fry. 

Win annual tribute by the annual lie ! 

Aided by thee — but whither do I stray ? — 

Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway ; 

An age of pufis an age of gold succeeds, 

And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds. 

If such thy power, hear the Muse's prayer ! 
Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air ; 
Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist 
Like windmill-sails to bring the poet grist ; 
As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale, 
Whirl'd Orithyia from her native vale — 
So, Avhile Lucretian wonders I rehearse, 
Augusta's sons shall patronise my verse. 

I sing of Atoms, whose creative brain, 
With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane ; 
Not to the labours of subservient man, 
To no young Wyatt appertains the plan — 



ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS. 361 

We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill, 
Impassive media of atomic Avill ; 
Ye stare ! then Truth's broad talisman discern — 
'Tis demonstration speaks — attend, and learn ! 

From floating elements in Chaos hurl'd, 
Self- form' d of atoms, sprang the infant world : 
No great First Cause inspired the happy plot, 
But all was matter — and no matter what. 
Atoms, attracted bj some law occult, 
Settling in spheres, the globe was the result; 
Pure child of Chance, which still directs the ball, 
As rotatory atoms rise or fall. 
In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats, 
A mass of particles and confluent motes, 
So nicely poised, that if one atom flings 
Its weight away, aloft the planet springs. 
And wings its course through realms of boundless space^ 
Outstripping comets in eccentric race. 
Add but one atom more, it sinks outright 
Down to the realms of Tartarus and night. 
What waters melt or scorching fires consume, 
In difierent forms their being re-assume : 
Hence can no change arise, except in name, 
For weight and substance ever are the same. 

Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise 
Its elements primeval sought the skies ; 
There pendulous to wait the happy hour 
When new attractions should restore their power : 
So, in this procreant theatre elate, 
Echoes unborn their future life await ; 
Here embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd, 
Like words .in northern atmosphere congeal'd. 

16 



362 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Here many a foetus laugh and half encore 

Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor ; 

Bj puffs concipient some in ether flit, 

And soar in bravos from the thundering pit; 

Some forth on ticket-nights' from tradesmen break, 

To mar the actor they design to make ; 

While some this mortal life abortive miss, 

Crushed by a groan, or strangled by a hiss. 

So, when " Dog's-meat" re-echoes through the streets, 

Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats, 

Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes, 

Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries ; 

Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail, 

Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail. 

Ye fallen bricks ! in Drury's fire calcined. 
Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind, 
Sweet was the hour, when, tempted by your freaks. 
Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks. 
Float dulcet serenades upon the ear, 
Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere. 
Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil, 
Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male. 
The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit. 
And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit ; 
Then down they rush in amatory race. 
Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace. 
Some choose old lovers, some decide for new, 
But each, when fix'd, is to her station true. 
Thus various bricks are made, as tastes invite — 
The red, the gray, the dingy, or the white. 

Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free, 
To ahen beauty bends the lawless knee. 



ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS. 363 

But of unhallow'd fascinations sick, 
Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick ; 
The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain, 
No crisp ^neas soothes the widow's pain. 

So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps, 
A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps. 
Falls on the housemaid's ear : amazed she stands, 
Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands, 
And " Matches" calls. The dustman, bubbled flat, 
Thinks 'tis for him, and dofls his fan-tail'd hat ; 
The milkman, whom her second cries assail. 
With sudden sink unyokes the clinking pail ; 
Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps — 
Alas ! her screaming only brings the sweeps. 
Sweeps but put out — she Avants to raise a flame, 
And calls for matches, but 'tis all the same. 
Atoms and housemaids ! mark the moral true — 
If once ye go astray, no match for you ! 

As atoms in one mass united mix, 
So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks ; 
Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high, 
Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie ; 
Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod. 
Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod : 
And up the ladder bears the workman, taught 
To think he bears the bricks — mistaken thought ! 
A proof behold : if near the top they find 
The nymphs or broken-corner'd or unkind, 
Back to the base, " resulting with a bound, "^ 
They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground ! 

So legends tell along the lofty hill 
Paced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill ; 



364 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

On trudo;ed the Gemini to reach the rail 

That shields the well's top from the expectant pail, 

AVhen, ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear, 

Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere ; 

Head over heels begins his toppling track, 

Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack, 

And at the mountain's base bobs plump against him, whack! 

Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit, 
Jumbled bj chance in gallery, box, and pit, 
For you no Peter opes the fabled door. 
No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar ; 
Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweep 
Shall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deep, 
To gorge the greedy elements, and mix 
With water, marl, and clay, and stones, and sticks ; 
While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones, and clay, 
Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play. 

happy age ! when convert Christians read 
No sacred writings but the Pagan creed — 
happy age ! when, spurning Newton's dreams, 
Our poets' sons recite Lucretian themes, 
Abjure the idle systems of their youth. 
And turn asiain to atoms and to truth ; — 
happier still ! when England's dauntless dames, 
Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames, 
The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse, 
And learn the rampant lessons of the stews I 

All hail, Lucretius ! renovated sage ! 
Unfold the modest mystics of thy page ; 
Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf, 
But Kve, kind bard — that I may live myself. 



XVI. 
THEATRICAL ALARM-BELL. 

BY THE EDITOR OF THE M. P. 



"Bounce, Jupiter, bounce!" — O'Haea. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, 
As it is now the universallj-admitted, and indeed prettj- 
generallj-suspected, aim of Mr. Whitbread and the 
infamous, l^loodthirstj, and, in fact, illiberal faction to 
which he belongs, to burn to the ground this free and 
happy Protestant city, and establish himself in St. 
James's Palace, his fellow committeemen have thought 
it their duty to watch the principles of a theatre built 
under his auspices. The information they have re- 
ceived from an undoubted authority — particularly from 
an old fruit-woman who had turned king's evidence, 
and whose name, for obvious reasons, we forbear to 
mention, though we have had it some weeks in our 
possession — has induced them to introduce various re- 
forms — not such reforms as the vile factions clamour for, 
meaning thereby revolution, but such reforms as are neces- 
sary to preserve the glorious constitution of the only free, 
happy, and prosperous country now left upon the face of 
the earth. From the valuable and authentic source above 
alluded to, we have learnt that a sanguinary plot has been 
formed by some united Irishmen, combined with a gang 
of Luddites, and a special committee sent over by the 
Pope at the instigation of the beastly Corsican fiend, for 



366 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

destroying all the loyal part of the audience on the an- 
niversary of that deeply-to-be-abhorred-and-highly-to- 
be-blamed stratagem, the Gunpowder Plot, which falls 
this year on Thursday the fifth of November. The 
■whole is under the direction of a delegated committee 
of 0. P's whose treasonable exploits at Covent Garden 
you all recollect, and all of whom would have been hung 
from the chandeliers at that time, but for the mistaken 
lenity of government. At a given signal, a well-known 
0. P. was to cry out from the gallery, " Nosey ! Music !" 
whereupon all the 0. P.'s were to produce from their 
inside pockets a long pair of shears, edged with felt, to 
prevent their making any noise, manufactured expressly 
by a wretch at Birmingham, one of Mr. Brougham's 
evidences, and now in custody. With these they were 
to cut off the heads of all the loyal N. P.'s in the house, 
without distinction of sex or age. At the signal, simi- 
larly given, of "Throw him over!" which it now ap- 
pears always alluded to the overthrow of ovir never- 
suflficiently-enough - to-be-deeply-and-universally-to - be- 
venerated constitution, all the heads of the N. P.'s were 
to be thrown at the fiddler, to prevent their appearing 
in evidence, or perhaps as a false and illiberal insinua- 
tion that they have no heads of their own. All that 
we know of the further desio;ns of these incendiaries is, 
that they are by-a-great-deal-too-much-too-horrible-to- 
be-mentioned. 

The manager has acted with his usual promptitude on 
this trying occasion. He has contracted for 800 tons 
of gunpowder, which are at this moment placed in a 
small barrel under the pit ; and a descendant of Guy 
Faux, assisted by Col. Congreve, has undertaken to 
blow up the house, when necessary, in so novel and in- 
genious a manner^ that every 0. P. shall be annihilated, 



THEATRICAL ALARM-BELL. 367 

while not a whisker of the N. P.'s shall be singed. 
This strikingly displays the advantages of loyalty and 
attachment to government. Several other hints have 
been taken from the theatrical regulations of the not-a- 
bit-the-less-on-that- account- to-be-universally- execrated 
monster Bonaparte. A park of artillery, provided with 
chain-shot, is to be stationed on the stage, and play upon 
the audience, in case of any indication of misplaced ap- 
plause or popular discontent (which accounts for the 
large space between the curtain and the lamps) ; and 
the public will participate our satisfaction in learning 
that the indecorous custom of standing up with the hat 
on is to be abolished, as the Bow-street officers are pro- 
vided with daggers, and have orders to stab all such 
persons to the heart, and send their bodies to Surgeons' 
Hall. Gentlemen who cough are only to be slightly 
wounded. Fruit- women bawling "Bill of the Play!" 
are to be forthwith shot, for which purpose soldiers will 
be stationed in the slips, and ball-cartridge is to be 
served out with the lemonade. If any of the spectators 
happen to sneeze or spit, they are to be transported for 
life ; and any person who is so tall as to prevent another 
seeing, is to be dragged out and sent on board the tender, 
or, by an instrument to be taken out of the pocket of 
Procrustes, to be forthwith cut shorter, either at the 
head or foot, according as his own convenience may 
dictate. 

Thus, ladies and gentlemen, have the committee, 
through my medium, set forth the not-in-a-hurry-to-be- 
paralleled plan they have adopted for preserving order 
and decorum within the walls of their magnificent edi- 
fice. Nor have they, while attentive to their own con- 
cerns, by any means overlooked those of the cities of 
London and Westminster. Finding on enumeration, 



368 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

that they have with a with-two-hands-and-one-tongue- 
to-he-applauded UberaHty contracted for more gunpow- 
der than the J want, thej have parted with the surplus 
to the mattock-carrying and hustings-hammering high- 
bailiff of Westminster, who has, with his own shovel, 
dug a large hole in the front of the parish-church of 
St. Paul, Covent Garden, that, upon the least symptom 
of ill-breeding in the mob at the general election, the 
whole of the market may be blown into the air. This, 
ladies and gentlemen, may at first make provisions rise, 
but we pledge the credit of our theatre that they will 
soon fall again, and people be supplied, as usual, with 
vegetables, in the in-general -strewed-with-cabbage-stalks- 
but-on- Saturday -night-lighted- up- with-lamps market of 
Covent Garden. 

I should expatiate more largely on the other advan- 
tages of the glorious constitution of these by-the-whole- 
of-Europe-envied realms, but I am called away to take 
an account of the ladies, and other artificial flowers of a 
fashionable rout, of which a full and particular account 
will hereafter appear. For the present, my fashionable 
intelligence is scanty, on account of the opening of 
Drury Lane ; and the ladies and gentlemen who honour 
me will not be surprised to find nothing under my usual 
head!! 



XVII. 
THE THEATRE. 

BY THE EEV. G. C. 



" Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetas. 
Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Grseca 
Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta." Hoe. 

A PREFACE OF APOLOGIES.^ 

If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be 
selected for the opening address, a few words of expla- 
ation may be deemed necessary, on my part, to avert 
invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have 
thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning 
the orchestra, will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to 
any of the gentlemen employed in the band. It is to be 
desired that they would keep their instruments ready 
tuned, and strike oflf at once. This would be an accom- 
modation to many well-meaning persons who frequent 
the theatre, who, not being blest with the ear of St. 
Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and think 
the latter concluded before it is begun. 

" one fiddle will 



Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still," 

was originally written "one hautboy will;" but, having 
providentially been informed, when this poem was on the 
point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in 
the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial 
indignation from the head of its blower : as it now stands, 
16* 



370 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

"one fiddle" among many, the faulty individual, will, I 
hope, escape detection. The story of the flying play- 
bill is calculated to expose a practice much too common, 
of pinning play-bills to the cushions insecurely, and 
frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these 
lines save one play-bill only from the fate I have 
recorded, I shall not deem my labour ill employed. 
The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings glances at 
the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling 
gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at 
the commencement of the play, he might have leaned 
forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate 
would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs 
formed to enable him to recover his loss, is purposely so 
crossed in texture and materials as to mislead the reader 
in respect to the real owner of any one of them. For, 
in the statistical view of life and manners which I oc- 
casionally present, my clerical profession has taught me 
how extremely improper it would be, by any allusion, 
however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, 
to any individual, however foolish or wicked. 

a c. 



THE THEATRE. 



Interior of a Theatre described.— Pit gradually fills.— The Check-taker.— Pit 
full. — The Orchestra tuned. — One fiddle rather dilatory. — Is reproved — and 
repents. — Evolutions of a Play-hill.— Its final Settlement on the Spikes.— The 
Gods taken to task — and why. — Motley Group of Play-goers. — Holywell 
Street, St. Pancras. — Emanuel Jennings binds Ids Son apprentice — not in 
London — and why. — Episode of the Hat. 

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, 
Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, 
Touch' d by the lamplighter's Promethean art. 
Start into light, and make the lighter start ; 
To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane 
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane ; 
While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit. 
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. 

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, 
Distant or near, they settle where they please ; 
But when the multitude contracts the span, 
And seats are rare, they settle where they can. 

Now the full benches to late-comers doom 
No room for standing, miscall'd standing room. 

Hark ! the check-taker moody silence breaks, 
And bawling " Pit full !" gives the check he takes; 
Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram. 
Contending crowders shout the frequent damn. 
And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. 



372 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

See to their desks Apollo's sons repair — 
Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair ! 
In unison their various tones to tune, 
Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon ; 
In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, 
Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, 
Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, 
Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp ; 
Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in. 
Attunes to order the chaotic din. 
Now all seems hush'd — but, no, one fiddle will 
Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. 
Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clan 
Reproves with frowns the dilatory man : 
Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, 
Nods a new signal, and away they go. 

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, "Hats off!" 
And awed Consumption checks his chided cough. 
Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love 
Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above : 
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap. 
Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap j 
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, 
And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers ; 
Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, 
It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl; 
Who from his powder' d pate the intruder strikes, 
And, from mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. 

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues ? 
Who's that calls " Silence!" with such leathern lungs? 
He who, in quest of quiet, "■ Silence !" hoots, 
Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. 



THE THEATRE. 373 

What various swains our motley walls contain ! — 
Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane ; 
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, 
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court ; 
From the Hajmarket canting rogues in grain, 
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane ; 
The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark. 
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk ; 
Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, 
With pence twice five — they want but twopence more ; 
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, 
And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. 

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, 
But talk their minds — we wish they 'd mind their talk ; 
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels Hve — 
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give ; 
Jews from St. Mary Axe,^ for jobs so wary, 
That for old clothes they 'd even axe St. Mary ; 
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate. 
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait ; 
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse 
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. 

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, 
For scowling Fortune seem'd to threaten woe. 

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer 
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; 
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, 
Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs"s shoes. 
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy 
Up as a corn-cutter — a safe employ ; 
In Holy- well Street, St. Pancras, he was bred 



374 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

(At number twenty-seven, it is said), 
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head : 
He would have bound him to some shop in town. 
But with a premium he could not come down. 
Pat was tbe urchin's name — a red-hair'd youth, 
Fonder of purl and skittle grounds than truth. 

Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe. 
The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. 

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, 
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat : 
Down from the gallery the beaver flew, 
And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. 
How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery-door 
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four ? 
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait. 
And gain his hat again at half-past eight ? 
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, 
John Mullens whispers, " Take my handkerchief" 
" Thank you," cries Pat ; " but one won't make a line." 
"Take mine," cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, "Take 

mine." 
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, 
Where Spitalfields with real India vies. 
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clue, 
Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, 
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. 
George Green below, with palpitating hand, 
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band — 
Upsoars the prize ! The youth with joy unfeign'd, 
Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd ; 
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat 
Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat. 



XVIII. XIX. XX. 

TO THE MANAGING- COMMITTEE OF THE NEW 
DKUEYLANE THEATRE. 

Gentlemen, 

Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of 
Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent 
travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were 
several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompa- 
nied by a singing in my throat, which quickly commu- 
nicated itself to the ears of every body about me, and 
made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to Dr. 
Apollo; three of whose favourite servants — that is to 
say, Macbeth, his butcher ; Mrs. Haller, his cook ; and 
George Barnwell, his book-keeper — I waylaid in one of 
my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful 
fashion. In this woeful crisis, I accidentally heard of 
your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures 
every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you 
inclosed a more detailed specimen of my case : if you 
could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said 
or sung on the first night of your performance, I have 
no doubt that I should feel the immediate efiects of your 
invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell 
me one hiss is a dose. 

I am, &c., 
MoMUS Medlak. 



CASE No. I. 

MACBETH. 



[Enter Macbeth in a red nightcap. Pagk follcnoing with a torch."] 

Go, boj, and thy good mistress tell 

(She knows that my purpose is cruel), 
I 'd thank her to tingle her bell 

As soon as she 's heated my gruel. 
Go, get thee to bed and repose — 

To sit up so late is a scandal ; 
But ere you have ta'en off your clothes, 

Be sure that you put out that candle. 
Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol. 

My stars, in the air here 's a knife ! — 

I 'm sure it can not be a hum ; 
I '11 catch at the handle, add's life ! 

And then I shall not cut my thumb. 
I 've got him ! — no, at him again ! 

Come, come, I 'm not fond of these jokes ; 
This must be some blade of the brain — 

Those witches are given to hoax. 

I 've one in my pocket, I know, 
My wife left on purpose behind her ; 

She bought this of Teddy-high-ho, 
The poor Caledonian grinder. 



MACBETH. 377 

I see thee again ! o'er thy middle 

Large drops of red blood now are spill' d, 

Just as much as to say, diddle diddle, 
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd. 

It leads to his chamber, I swear ; 

I tremble and quake every joint — 
No dog at the scent of a hare 

Ever yet made a cleverer point. 
Ah, no ! 'twas a dagger of straw — 

Give me blinkers, to save me from starting; 
The knife that I thought that I saw 

Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin. 

Now o'er this terrestrial hive 

A life paralytic is spread ; • 

For while the one half is alive, 

The other is sleepy and dead. 
King Duncan, in grand majesty, 

Has got my state-bed for a snooze ; 
I 've lent him my slippers, so I 

May certainly stand in his shoes. 

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales ! 

Ye, feet, rouse no echo in walking ! 
For though a dead man tells no tales, 

Dead walls are much given to talking, 
This knife shall be in at the death — 

I '11 stick him, then off safely get! 
Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth, 

For he 'd ne'er stick at any thing yet. 

Hark, hark ! 'tis the signal, by goles ! 
It sounds like a funeral knell : 



378 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

0, near it not, Duncan ! it tolls 
To call thee to heaven or hell. 

Or if you to heaven won't fly, 
But rather prefer Pluto's ether, 

Only wait a few years till I die, 
And we '11 go to the devil together. 
Ri fol de rol, &c. 



CASE No. n. 
THE STRANGER/ 



Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the 

Stranger, 
A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan, 
A husband suspicious — his wife acted Ranger, 
She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon. 
Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel, 
That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin ; 
Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible — 
My spouse is a Stranger, and I '11 take him in. 
With my sentimentalibus lachrymse roar'em, 
And pathos and bathos delightful to see ; 
And chop and change ribs, a-la-mode Germanorum, 
And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee. 

To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough, 
Where was her plate ? — why, 'twas laid on the shelf; 
Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen- 
stuff- 
Dressing the dinner instead of herself. 
No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle. 
Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread, 
With a heart full of grief, and a pan full of charcoal. 
She lighted the company up to their bed. 

Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon 
Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout, 



380 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Till, tired with his journey the peevish curmudgeon 
Sat down and blubber' d just hke a church-spout. 
One day on a bench as dejected and sad he laid, 
Hearing a squash, he cried. Damn it, what 's that ? 
'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived 

Adelaide, 
Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat. 

Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it 
Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear ; 
No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket, 
Exposed as he was to the count's son and heir, 
Dear sir, quoth the count, in reward of your valour, 
To shew that my gratitude is not mere talk. 
You shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller, 
Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork. 

Behold, now the count gave the Stranger a dinner, 
With gunpowder-tea, which you know brings a ball. 
And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner. 
He made of the Stranger no stranger at all. 
At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken — 
A bird that she never had met with before ; 
But, seeing him, scream' d, and was carried off kicking, 
And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door. 

To finish my tale without roundaboutation, 
Young master and missee besieged their papa ; 
They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation — 
The Stranger cried Oh ! Mrs. Haller cried Ah ! 
Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in, 
I have no good moral to give in exchange ; 



STRANGER TRAVESTIE. 381 

For though she, as a cook, might be given to melting, 
The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange, 
With this sentimentalibus lachrymas roar 'em. 
And pathos and bathos delightful to see. 
And chop and change ribs, a-la-mode Germanorum, 
And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee. 



CASE, No. in. 

GEORGE BARNWELL. 



George Barnwell stood at the shop-door, 
A customer hoping to find, sir ; 
His apron was hanging before, 
But the tail of his coat was behind, sir. 
A lady, so painted and smart, 
Cried, Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late ; 
I've got nothing left but a groat — 
Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate ? 
Rum ti, &;c. 

Her face was rouged up to the eyes, 
Wliich made her look prouder and prouder ; 
His hair stood on end with surprise. 
And hers with pomatum and powder. 
The business was soon understood ; 
The lady, who wish'd to be more rich, 
Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood, 
And I lodge at the Gunner's in Shoreditch. 
Rum ti, &c. 

Now nightly he stole out, good lack ! 
And into her lodging would pop, sir ; 
And often forgot to come back. 
Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir. 



GEORGE BARNWELL TRAVESTIE. 383 

Her beauty his wits did bereave — 
Determined to be quite the crack 0, 
He lounged at the Adam and Eve, 
And call'd for his gin and tobacco. 
Rum ti. &c. 

And now — for the truth must be told, 
Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill — 
He stole from the till all the gold, 
And ate the lump-sugar and treacle. 
In vain did his master exclaim, 
Dear George, do n't engage with that dragon ; 
She '11 lead you to sorrow and shame. 
And leave you the devil a rag on 

Your rum ti, &c. 

In vain he entreats and implores 
The weak and incurable ninny, 
So kicks him at last out of doors, 
And Georgy soon spends his last guinea. 
His uncle, whose generous purse 
Had often relieved him, as I know, 
Now finding him grow Avorse and worse, 
Refused to come down with the rhino. 
Rum ti, &c. 

Cried Mil wood, whose cruel heart's core 
Was so flinty that nothing could shock it, 
If ye mean to come here any more. 
Pray come with some cash in your pockets 
Make Nunky surrender his dibs, 
Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels. 
Or stick a knife into his ribs — 
I'll warrant he '11 then shew some bowels. 
Rui.u ti, &c. 



384 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

A pistol he got from his love — 
'Twas loaded with powder and bullet ; 
He trudged off to Camberwell Grove, 
But wanted the courage to pull it. 
There 's Nunky as fat as a hog, 
While I am as lean as a lizard ; 
Here 's at you, you stingy old dog ! — 
And he whips a long knife in his gizard. 
Rum ti, &c. 

All of you who attend to my song, 
A terrible end of the farce shall see, 
If you join in the inquisitive throng 
That followed poor George to Marshalsea. 
If Milwood were here, dash my wigs, 
Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well; 
Had I stuck to my prunes and figs, 
I ne'er had stuck Nunky at Camberwell. 
Rum ti, &c. 

Their bodies were never cut down ; 
For granny relates with amazement, 
A witch bore 'em over the town. 
And hung them on Thorowgood's casement. 
The neighbours, I 've heard the folks say, 
The miracle noisily brag on ; 
And the shop is, to this very day. 
The sign of the George and the Dragon. 
Rum ti, &c. 



XXL 

PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS. 

BY T. H. 



" Rhymes the rudders are of verses, 
With which, like ships, they steer their courses." 

HUDIBKAS. 

Scene draws, and discovers PtJNCH on a throne, surrounded hy 
Lear, Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, Othello, G-eorge Barn- 
well, Hamlet, Ghost, Macheath, Juliet, Friar, Apothe- 
cary, Eomeo, and Falstaff. — ^Punch descends and addresses 
them in the following 

RECITATIVE. 

As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is, 

So I with you am master of the ceremonies — 

These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye 'em ? — 

Oh, in Greek Imgo 'tis E-pi-thalamium. 

October's tenth it is : toss up each hat to-day, 

And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday ! 

On this great night, 'tis settled by our manager, 

That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a 

jeer. 
Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion. 
And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion ; 
That every soul, whether or not a cough he has, 
May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus. 
So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,^ 
Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini :^ 

17 



386 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses, 
May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis ! 

They dance and sing. 
Air — " Sure such a ctay." Tom Thumb. 

LEAR. 

Dance, Regan ! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril — 

Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross ; 

Stop, Cordelia ! do not tread upon her heel, 

Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse. 

See, she twists her mutton fists like INIolyneux or Beel- 
zebub, 

And t' other 's clack, who pats her back, is louder far 
than hell's hubbub. 

They tweak my nose and round it goes — I fear they '11 
break the ridge of it. 

Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the 
bridge of it."' 

OMNES. 

Round let iis liound, for this is Punch's holyday, 
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza ! huzza ! 

LADY MACBETH. 

/ kill'd the king : my husband is a heavy dunce ; 

He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the 

stud. 
One loves long gloves : for mittens, like king's evidence, 
Let truth with the fingers out. and won't hide blood. 

MACBETH. 

When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery, 
To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws 
awry ; 



punch's apotheosis. 387 

With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the 

use of her, 
Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by 

Lucifer. 

OMNES. 

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday. 
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza I huzza ! 

OTHELLO. 

Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did, 
Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast 

beef; 
lago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlet 
That smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handker- 
chief. 

GEORGE BARNWELL. 

Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate ? 
Milwood shews for hanging us they 've got an ugly 

knack o' late ; 
If on beauty 'stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees, 
Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices. 

OMNES. 

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday, 
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza ! huzza ! 

HAMLET. 

I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and peri-helia 

The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat. 

I stuck by ill luck, enamour' d of Ophelia, 

Old Polony, like a sausage, and exclaim'd, "Rat, rat!" 



388 REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

GHOST. 

Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup — no more I'll be an 

actor in 
Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's 

manufacturing. 

MACHEATH. 

I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy ; 
But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of 
Brandy 0. 

OMNES. 

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday. 
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza ! huzza ! 

JULIET. 

I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore — 
A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall. 

FRIAR. 

And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly bore. 

APOTHECARY. 

And that is why poor skinny I have none at all. 

ROMEO. 

I'm the resurrection-man, of buried bodies amorous. 

FALSTAFF. 

I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet 
clamorous ; 



punch's apotheosis. 389 

For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er 
begin to feel it ere I 

Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment mili- 
tary. 

OMNES. 

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, 
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza ! huzza ! 

[Exeunt dancing. 



NOTES 



THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 



I.— LOYAL EFFUSION. 

BY W. T. F. [WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD.] 
[Mr. Fitzgerald died 9th July, 1829, aged 70.] 

" The first piece, under the name of the loyal Mr. Fitzgerald, 
though as good we suppose as tlie original, is not very interest- 
ing. Whether it be very hke Mr. Fitzgerald or not, however, it 
must be allowed that the vulgarity, servility, and gross absurdity 
of the newspaper scribblers is well rendered." — Jeffrey, Edin- 
burgh Review. 

William Thomas Fitzgerald. The annotator's first personal 
knowledge of this gentleman was at Harry GrevUle's Pic-Nic 
Theatre, in Tottenham-street, where he personated Zanga in a 
wig too small for his head. The second time of seeing him was 
at the table of old Lord Dudley, who familiarly called him Fitz, 
but forgot to name liim in his will. The Viscount's son (recently 
deceased), however, hberally supphed the omission by a donation 
of five thousand pounds. The third and last time of encounter- 
ing him was at an anniversary dinner of the Literary Fund, at 
the Freemasons' Tavern. Both parties, as two of the stewards, 
met their brethren in a small room about half an hour before 
dinner. The lampooner, out of delicacy, kept aloof from the 
poet. The latter, however, made up to him, when the following 
dialogue took place : 

Fitzgerald (with good humor). " Mr. , I mean to recite 

after dinner." 

Mr. . <' Do you ?" 

Fitzgerald. " Yes : you '11 have more of * God bless the Re- 
gent and the Duke of York !' " 

The whole of this imitation, after a lapse of twenty years, ap- 
17* 



394 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

pears to the Authors too personal and sarcastic ; but they may 
shelter themselves under a very broad mantle : 

" Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl 
His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall." — Byron. 

Fitzgerald actually sent in an address to the committee on the 
31st of August, 1812. It was pubUshed among the other Genuine 
Rejected Addt^esses, in one vokmie, in that year. The following is 
an extract : — 

" The troubled shade of Garrick, hovering near, 
Dropt on the burning pile a pitying tear." 

What a pity that, like Sterne's recording angel, it did not suc- 
ceed in blotting the fire out forever 1 That faihng, why not 
adopt GulUver's remedy ? 

1. [Mr. B. Wyatt, architect of Drury Lane Theatre, son of 
James Wyatt, architect of the Pantheon.] 

2. In plain English, the Halfpenny-hatch, then a footway 
through fields ; but now, as the same bards sing elsewhere — 

"St. George's Fields are fields no more. 
The trowel supersedes the plough ; 
Swamps, huge and inundate of yore. 
Are changed to civic villas now." 

3. [Covent Garden Theatre was burnt down 20th September, 
1808 ; Drury Lane Theatre 24:th February, 1809.] 

4. [The east end of St. James's Palace was destroyed by fire, 
21st January, 1809. The wardrobe of Lady Charlotte Finch 
(alluded to in the next line) was burnt in the fire.] 

5. [The Honourable William Wellesley Pole, now (1852) Earl 
of Mornington, married, 14th March, 1812, Catherine, daughter 
and heir of Sir James Tylney Long, Bart. ; upon which occasion 
he assumed the additional names of Tylney and Long.] 



II— THE BABY'S DEBUT. 

• BY W. W. [WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.] 

[Mr. Wordsworth died 23d April, 1S50, in his eighty -second year.] 
" The Author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any 
of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry ; but has suc- 
ceeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 395 

childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will 
make him ashamed of his Alice Fell, and the greater part of his 
last volumes — of which it is by no means a parody, bat a very 
fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation." — Jeffrey, 
Edinburgh Review. 

1. Jack and Nancy, as it was afterwards remarked to the Au- 
thors, are here made to come into the world at periods not suflS- 
ciently remote. The writers were then bachelors. One of them 
[James], unfortunately, still continues so, as he has thus recorded 
in his niece's album : 

" Should I seek Hymen's tie, 

As a poet I die — 
Ye Benedicks, mourn my distresses 1 

For what little fame 

Is annexed to my name 
Is derived from Rejected Addresses." 

The blunder, notwithstanding, remains unrectified. The reader 
of poetry is always dissatisfied with emendations : they sound 
discordantly upon the ear, like a modern song, by Bishop or 
Braham, introduced in Love in a Village. 

2. This alludes to the Young Betty mania. The writer was in 
the stage-box at the height of tliis young gentleman's popularity. 
One of the other occupants offered, in a loud voice, to prove 
that young Betty did not understand Shakespeare. " Silence 1" 
was the cry ; but he still proceeded. " Turn him out !" was the 
next ejaculation. He still vociferated, " He does not understand 
Shakespeare ;" and was consequently shouldered into the lobby. 
" I '11 prove it to you," said the critic to the door-keeper. " Prove 
what, sir ?" " That he does not understand Shakespeare." This 
was Moliere's housemaid with a vengeance ! 

Young Betty may now [1833] be seen walking about town — ^a 
portly personage, aged about forty — clad in a furred and frogged 
surtout ; probably muttering to himself (as he has been at col- 
lege), " mihi prseteritos !" &c. [He is still alive, 1852. Master 
Betty, or " The young Roscius," was born in 1791, and made his 
first appearance on a London stage as Achmet in " Barbarossa," 
at Covent Garden Theatre, on the first of December, 1804. He 
was, therefore, " not quite thirteen." He lasted two seasons.] 



896 NOTES TO THE REJECTED APDRESSES. 



III.— AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHCENIX 

BY S. T. P. 
For an account of this anonymous gentleman, see Preface. 

1. [A " Phoenix" was perhaps excusable. The first Theatre in 
Drury Lane was called "The Cock-pit or Phoenix Theatre." 
"Whitbread liimself wrote an address, it is said, for the occasion ; 
like the others, it had of course a Phoenix. " But Wliitbread," 
said Sheridan, " made more of the bird than any of them ; he 
entered into particulars, and described its wings, beak, tail, &c. ; 
in short, it was a poulterer'' s description of a Phoenix,"] 



IV.— GUI BONO? 

BY LORD B. [lord BYRON.] 

[Lord Byron died 19th April, 1824, in his thirty-seventh year.] 

" The author has succeeded better in copying the melody and 
misanthropic sentiments of Childe Harold, than the nervous and 
impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied 
them. The attempt, however, indicates very considerable power ; 
and the flow of the verse and the construction of the poetical 
period are imitated with no ordinary skill." — Jeffrey, Edinburgh 
Review. 

1. Tliis would seem to show that poet and prophet are syno- 
nymous, the noble bard having afterwards returned to England, 
and again quitted it, under domestic circumstances painfully no- 
torious. His good-humored forgiveness of the Authors has 
already been alluded to in the preface. Nothing of this illustrious 
poet, however trivial, can be otherwise than interesting. " We 
knew him well." At Mr. Murray's dinner-table the annotator 
met him and Sir John Malcolm. Lord Byron talked of intend- 
ing to travel in Persia. "What must I do when I set off?" 
said he to Sir John. " Cut off your buttons 1" " My buttons ! 
what, these metal ones ?" " Yes ; the Persians are in the main 
very honest fellows ; but if you go thus bedizened, you will in- 
fallibly be murdered for your buttons !" At a dinner at Monk 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 397 

Lewis's chambers in the Albany, Lord Byron expressed to the 
writer liis determination not to go there again, adding, " I never 
wOl dine with a middle-aged man who fills up his table with 
young ensigns, and has looking-glass panels to liis book-cases." 
Lord Byron, when one of the Drury-lane Committee of Manage- 
ment, challenged the writer to sing alternately (like the swains 
in Virgil) the praises of Mrs. Mardyn. the actress, who, by the 
bye, was hissed off the stage for an imputed intimacy of which 
she was quite innocent. 
The contest ran as follows : 

"Wake, muse of fire, your ardent lyre, 

Pour forth your amorous ditty. 
But first profound, in duty bound, 

Applaud the new committee ; 
Their scenic art from Thespis' cart 

All jaded nags discarding. 
To London drove this queen of love, 

Enchanting Mrs. Mardyn. 

Though tides of love around her rove, 

I fear she'll choose Pactolus — 
In that bright surge bards ne'er immerge, 

So I must e'en swim solus. 
' Out, out, alas !' iU-fated gas. 

That shin' St round (Jovent Garden, 
Thy ray how flat, compared with that 

From eye of Mrs. Mardyn 1" 

And SO on. The reader has, no doubt, already discovered 
" which is the justice, and wliich is the thief." 

Lord Byron at that time wore a very narrow cravat of white 
sarsnet, with the sliirt-collar faUing over ; a black coat and waist- 
coat, and very broad white trousers, to liide his lame foot — 
these were of Russia duck in the morning and jean in the even- 
ing. His watch-chain had a number of small gold seals appended 
to it, and was looped up to a button of liis waistcoat. His face 
was void of colour ; he wore no whiskers. His eyes were grey, 
ft-inged with long black lashes ; and his air was imposing, but 
rather supercilious. He undervalued David Hume ; denying 
his claim to genius on account of his bulk, and calling Jiim, from 
the Heroic Epistle, 

" The fattest hog in Epicurus' sty." 

One of this extraordinary man's allegations was, that " fat is an 
oily dropsy." To stave off its visitation, he frequently chewed 



398 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

tobacco in lieu of dinner, alleging that it absorbed tiie gastric 
juice of the stomach, and prevented hunger. " Pass your band 
down my side," said his lordship to the writer ; " can you count 
my ribs ?" " Every one of them." " I am deUghted to hear you 

say so. I called last week on Lady ; ' Ah, Lord Byron,' 

said she, ' how fat you grow !' But you know Lady is 

fond of saying spiteful things!" Let this gossip be summed up 
with the words of Lord Chesterfield, in his character of Boling- 
broke : " Upon the whole, on a survey of this extraordinary 
character, what can we say, but ' Alas, poor human nature !' " 

His favourite Pope's description of man is applicable to Byron 
individually : 

" Chaos of thought and passion all confused, 
Still by himself abused or disabused ; 
Created part to rise and part to fall, 
Great lord of all things, yet a slave to all ; 
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled — 
The glory, jest, and riddle of the -world." 

The writer never heard him allude to his deformed foot except 
upon one occasion, when, entering the green-room of Drury-Iane, 
he found Lord Byron alone, the younger Byrne and Miss Smith 
the dancer having just left liim, after an angry conference about 
a pas seul. " Had you been a here a minute sooner," said Lord 
B., " you would have heard a question about dancing referred to 
me ; — me ! (looking mournfully downward) whom fate from my 
birth has prohibited from taking a single step." 

2. [The first stanza (see Preface) was written by James Smith ; 
the remainder by Horace.] 

3. " Holland's edifice." The late theatre was built by Holland 
the arcliitect. The writer visited it on the night of its opening 
[April 21, 1794]. The performances were Macbeth and the Vir- 
gin Unmasked. Between the play and the farce, an excellent 
epOogue, written by George Colman, was excellently spoken by 
Miss Farren. It referred to the iron curtain which was, in the 
event of fire, to be let down between the stage and the audience, 
and which accordingly descended, by way of experiment, leaving 
Miss Farren between the lamps and the curtain. The fair speaker 
informed the audience, that should the fire break out on the stage 
(where it usually originates), it would thus be kept from the 
spectators ; adding, with great solemnity — 

" No ! we assure our generous benefactors 
'Twill only burn the scenery and the actors." 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 399 

A tank of water was afterwards exhibited, in the course of the 
epilogue, in which a wherry was rowed by a real live man, the 
band playing — 

" And did you not hear of a jolly young waterman ?" 

Miss Farren reciting — 

" Sit still, thare 's nothing in it, 
We'll undertake to drown you in a single minute." 

" vain thought !" as Othello says. Notwithstanding the boast 
in the epilogue — 

" Blow, wind — come rack, in ages yet unborn, 
Our castle's strength shall laugh a siege to scorn" — 

the theatre fell a victim to the flames within fifteen years from 
the prognostic ! These preparations against fire always presup- 
pose presence of mind and promptness in those who are to put 
them into action. They remind one of the dialogue in Morton's 
Speed the Plough, between Sir Able Handy and his son Bob : 

" Bob. Zounds, the castle's on fire ! 

Sir A. Yes. 

Boh. Where 's your patent liquid for extinguishing fire ? 

Sir A. It is not mixed. 

Boh. Then where 's your patent fire-escape ? 

Sir A. It is not fixed. 

Boh. You are never at a loss ? 

Sir A. Never. 

Boh. Then what do you mean to do ? 

Sir A. I don't know." 

4. A rather obscure mode of expression for /eiws'-harp ; which 
some etymologists allege, by the way, to be a corruption of 
Jaws' -harp. No connection, therefore, with King David. 



v.— HAMPSHIRE FARMER'S ADDRESS. 

BY W. C. [WILLIAM COBBETT.] 
[Mr. Cobbett died 18th June, 1835, aged seventy- three.] 

1. [The Weekly Register, which he kept up without the fail- 
ure of a single week from its first publication till his death — a 
period of above thirty-three years.] 



400 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

2. Bagshaw. At that time tlie publisher of Cobbett's Register. 

3. The old Lyceum Theatre, pulled down by Mr. Arnold. 
That since destroyed by fire [16th Feb., 1830], was erected on its 
site. [The Drury Lane Company performed at the Lyceum till 
the house was rebuUt.] 

4. [The present colonnade in Little Russell Street formed no 
part of the original design ; and was erected only a few years 
back.] 

5. An allusion to a murder then recently committed on Barnes 
Terrace. [The murder (22d July, 1812) of the Count and 
Countess DAntraigues (distantly related to the Bourbons) by a 
servant out of livery of the name of Laurence — an Italian or Pied- 
montese ; who made away Avith himself immediately after.] 

• 6. At that time keeper of Newgate. The present superintend- 
ent (1833) is styled governor I 

7. A portentous one that made its appearance in the year 
1811 ; in the midst of the war, 

" With fear of change perplexing nations." 



VI.— THE LIVING LUSTRES. 

BY T. M. [THOMAS MOORE.] 
[Mr. Moore died 26th February, 1852, in his seventy- third year.] 

" The Living Lustres appears to us a very fair imitation of the 
fantastic verses which that ingenious person, Mr. Moore, indites 
when he is merely gallant, and, resisting the lures of voluptuous- 
ness, is not enough in earnest to be tender." — Jeffrey, Edinburgh 
Review. 

1. Tliis alludes to two massive pillars of verd antique which 
then flanked the proscenium, but which have since been removed. 
Their colour reminds the bard of the Emerald Isle, and this 
causes him {more suo) to fly off at a tangent, and Hibernicise the 
rest of the poem. 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 401 



VII.— THE EEBUILDING. 

BY R. S. [ROBERT SOUTHET.] 
[Mr. Southey died March 13, 1843, in his sixty-ninth year.] 

" The Rebuilding is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of 
the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of 
that multifarious author, and is supposed to be spoken in the 
character of one of liis Glendoveers. The imitation of the dic- 
tion and measure, we think, is nearly almost perfect ; and the 
descriptions as good as the original. It opens with an account 
of the burning of the old theatre, formed upon the pattern of 
the Funeral of Arvalan." — Jeffrey, Edvnhurgh Revieio. 

1. For the Glendoveer, and the rest of the dramatis personce 
of this imitation, the reader is referred to the " Curse of Kehama." 

2. This couplet was introduced by the Authors by way of 
bravado, in answer to one who alleged that the English language 
contained no rhyme to chimney. 

3. Apollo. A gigantic wooden figure of this deity was erected 
on the roof. The writer (horrescit referens!) is old enough to 
recollect the time when it was first placed there. Old Bishop, 
then one of the masters of Merchant Tailors' School, wrote an 
epigram upon the occasion, wliich, referring to the aforesaid 
figure, concluded thus : 

"Above he fills up Shakespeare's place, 
And Shakespeare fills up his below." 

Very antithetical ; but quaere as to the meaning ? The writer, 
Uke Pluto, "long puzzled his brain" to find it out, till he was 
immersed " in a lower deep" by hearing Madame de Stael say, 
at the table of the late Lord Dillon, "Buonaparte is not a man, 
but a system." Inquiry was made in the course of the evening 
of Sir James ]\Iackintosh as to what the lady meant. He an- 
swered, " Mass ! I cannot tell." Madame de Stael repeats this 
apopthegm in her work on Germany. It is probably understood 
there. 

4. 0. P. This personage, who is alleged to have growled Uke 
a bull-dog, requires rather a lengthened note, for the edification 
of the rising generation. The " horns, rattles, drums," with 
which he is accompanied, are no inventions of the poet. The 



402 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

new Covent Garden Theatre opened on the 18th SL'ptember, 
1809, when a cry of" Old Prices" (afterwards dimmished to 0. 
P.) burst out from every part of the house. Tliis contmued and 
increased in violence until the 23rd, when rattles, drums, whistles, 
and cat-calls, having completely drowned the voices of the actors, 
Mr. Kemble, the stage-manager, came forward, and said, that a 
committee of gentlemen had undertaken to examine the finances 
of the concern, and that until they were prepared with their re- 
port, the theatre would continue closed. " Name them I" was 
shouted from all sides. The names were declared, viz.. Sir Charles 
Price, the Solicitor-General, the Eecorder of London, the Gov- 
ernor of the Bank, and Mr. Angerstein. " All shareholders !" 
bawled a wag from the gallery. In a few days the theatre re- 
opened : the public paid no attention to the report of the ref- 
erees, and the tumult was renewed for several weeks with even 
increased violence. The proprietors now sent in hired bruisers 
to mill the refractory into subjection. This irritated most of their 
former friends, and, amongst the rest, the annotator, who accord- 
ingly wrote the song of " Heigh-ho, says Kemble," which was 
caught up by the ballad-singers, and sung under Mr. Kemble's 
house-windows in Great Russell-street. A dinner was given at 
tlie Crown and Anchor Tavern in the Strand, to celebrate the 
victory obtained by W. Clifford in his action against Brandon 
the box-keeper, for assaulting liim for wearing the letters 0. P. 
in his hat. At this dinner Mr. Kemble attended, and matters 
were compromised by allowing the advanced price (seven shil- 
lings) to the boxes. The writer remembers a* former riot of a 
similar sort at the same theatre (in the year 1782), when the 
price to the boxes was raised from five sliiUings to six. That 
tumult, however, only lasted three nights. 

5. " From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch." This 
image is not the creation of the poets : it sprang from reality. 
The Authors happened to be at the Royal Circus when " God 
save the King" was called for, accompanied by a cry of " Stand 
up!" and "Hats off!" An inebriated naval lieutenant, perceiv- 
ing a gentleman in an adjoining box slow to obey the call, struck 
his hat off with his stick, exclaiming, " Take off your hat, sii' !" 
The other thus assaulted proved to be, unluckily for the lieute- 
nant, Lord Camelford, the celebrated bruiser and duellist. A 
set-to in the lobby was the consequence, where his lordship 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 403 

quickly proved victoiious. " The devil is not so black as lie is 
painted," said one of the Authors td the other ; " let us call upon 
Lord Camehbrd, and tell him that we were witnesses of his being 
firsi^ assaulted." The visit was paid on the ensuing morning at 
Lord Camelford's lodgings, in Bond-street. Over the fire-place 
in the drawing-room were ornaments strongly expressive of the 
pugnacity of the peer. A long thick bludgeon lay horizontally 
supported by two brass hooks. Above this was placed parallel 
ones of lesser dimensions, until a pyramid of weapons gradually 
arose, tapering to a horsewhip : 

" Thus all below was strength, and all above was grace." 

Lord Camelford received liis visitants with great civility, and 
thanked them warmly for the call ; adding, that their evidence 
would be material, it being his intention to indict the lieutenant 
for an assault. " All I can say in return is this," exclaimed the 
peer with great cordiality, " if ever I see you engaged in a row, 
upon my soul, I '11 stand by you." The Authors expressed them- 
selves thankful for so potent an ally, and departed. In about a 
fortnight afterwards [March 7, 1804] Lord Camelford was shot in 
a duel with Mr. Best. 

6. Veeshnoo. The late Mr. Whitbread. 

7. Levy. An insolvent Israelite who [18th January, 1810] 
tiirew liimself from the top of the Monument a short time before. 
An inhabitant of Monument-yard informed the writer, that he 
happened to be standing at his door talking to a neighbour ; and 
looking up at the top of the pillar, exclaimed, " Why, here 's the 
flag coming down." " Flag !" answered the other, " it 's a man !" 
The words were hardly uttered when the suicide fell within ter 
feet of the speakers. 



VIII.— DRURY'S DIRGE. 

BY LAURA MATILDA. 



" ' Drury's Dirge,' by Laura MatQda, is not of the first quality. 
The verses, to be sure, are very smooth and very nonsensical — 
as was intended ; but they are not so good as Swift's celebrated 
Song by a Person of Quality ; and are so exactly in the same 



404 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid 
making the comparison." — Jeffrey, Edinburgh Review. 

1. The Authors, as in gallantry bound, wish this lady to con- 
tinue anonymous. * 



IX.— A TALE OF DRIJRY LANE. 

BY W. S. [sir WALTER SCOTT.] 
[Sir Walter Scott died 21st September, 1832, in his sixty-second year.] 

"From the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select 
— it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the de- 
scription of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as 
amusing specimens of the misapplication of the style and metre 
of Mr. Scott's admirable romances." — Quarterly Review. 

" ' A Tale of Drury,' by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, ad- 
mirably executed ; though the introduction is rather tame. The 
burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love 
of localities . . . The catastrophe is described with a spirit not. 
unworthy of the name so venturously assumed by the describer." 
— Jeffrey, Edinburgh Review. 

1. Sir Walter Scott informed the annotator, that at one time 
he intended to print his collected works, and had pitched upon 
this identical quotation as a motto ; — a proof that sometimes great 
wits jump with Uttle ones. 

2. Alluding to the then great distance between the picture- 
frame, in which the green curtain was set, and the band. For a. 
justification of this, see below — " Dr. Johnson." 

3. [The old name for London : 

For poets you can never want 'em 

Spread through Augusta Trinobantum. — Swift. 

Thomson in his " Seasons" calls it " huge Augusta."] 

4. Old Bedlam, at that time, stood " close by London Wall." 
It was built after the model of the Tuileries, which is said to 
have given the French king great offence. In front of it 
Moorfields extended, with broad gi'avel walks crossing each 
other at right angles. These the writer well recollects; and 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 405 

Rivaz, an underwriter at Lloyd's, has told liim, that he remem- 
bered when the merchants of London would parade these walks 
on a summer evening with their wives and daughters, but now, 
as a punning brother bard sings, 

" Moorfields are fields no more." 

5. [A narrow passage immediately adjoining Drury Lane 
Theatre, and so called from the Vineyard attached to Covent or 
Convent Garden.] 

6. [The Hand-in-hand Insurance Office was one of the very 
first insurance offices established in London. To make the engi- 
neer of the office thus early in the race, is a piece of liistorical 
accuracy intended, it is said, on the part of the writer.] 

7. Whitbread's shears. An economical experiment of that 
gentleman. The present portico, towards Bridges Street, was 
afterwards erected under the lesseeship of Elliston, whose por- 
trait in the Exhibition was thus noticed in the Examiner : " Por- 
trait of the great Lessee, in liis favourite character of Mr. El- 
liston." 



X.— JOHNSON'S GHOST. 



" Samuel Johnson is not so good : the measure and solemnity 
of his sentences, in all the Umited variety of their structm-e, are 
indeed imitated with singular skill : but the diction is caricatured 
in a vulgar and unpleasing degree. To make Johnson call a 
door ' a ligneous barricade,' and its knocker and bell its ' frappant 
and tintinnabulant appendages,' is neither just nor humorous; 
and we are surprised that a writer who has given such extraor- 
dinary proofs of Ms talent for finer ridicule and fairer imitation, 
should have stooped to a vein of pleasantry so low, and so long 
ago exhausted ; especially as, in other passages of the same 
piece, he has shown how well qualified he was both to catch and 
to render the true characteristics of his original. The beginning, 
for example, we think excellent." — Jeffrey, Edinburgh Review. 

1. The celebratad Lord Chesterfield, whose letters to his Son, 
according to Dr. Johnson, inculcate " the manners of a dancing 
master and the morals of a — ," &c. 

2. Lord Mayor of the theatric sky. This alludes to Leigh Hunt, 
who, in The Examiner^ at this time kept the actors in hot water. 



406 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

Dr. Johnson's argument is, like many of his other arguments, 
specious, but untenable ; that which it defends has since been 
abandoned as impracticable. Mr. Wliitbread contended that the 
actor was Uke a portrait in a picture, and accordingly placed the 
green cmtain in a gilded frame remote from the foot-Ughts ; al- 
leging that no performer should mar the illusion by stepping out 
of the frame. Dowton was the first actor who, like Manfred's 
ancestor in the Castle of Otranto, took the Uberty of abandoning 
the canon. " Don't tell me of frames and pictures," ejaculated 
the testy comedian ; " if I can't be heard by the audience in 
the frame, I 'U walk out of it I" The proscenium has since been 
new-modelled, and the actors thereby brought nearer to the 
audience. 



XI.— THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY. 

BY THE HON. W. S. 

[William Robert Spencer. The best writer of vers de socittc 
in our time. He died at Paris in October, 1834, aged 65 ; and 
his poems were published in London the next year in one 
volume, 12mo.] 

" ' The Beautiful Incendiary,' by the Honourable W. Spencer, 
is also an imitation of great merit. The flashy, fashionable, arti- 
ficial style of this writer, with liis confident and extravagant com- 
pliments, can scarcely be said to be parodied in such lines." — 
Jeffrey, Edinburgh Review. 

1. Sobriety, &c. The good humour of the poet upon occasion 
of this parody has been noticed in the Preface. " It 's all very 
well for once," said he afterwards, in comic confidence, at his 
villa at Petersham, " but do n't do it again. I had been almost 
forgotten when you revived me ; and now all the newspapers 
and reviews ring with " this fashionable, trashy author.' " The 
sand and " filings of glass," mentioned in the last stanza, are 
referable to the well-known verses of the poet apologising to a 
lady for having paid an unconscionably long morning visit ; and 
where, alluding to Time, he says, 

" All his sands are diamond sparks, 
That glitter as they pass." 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 407 

Few men in society have more " gladdened life" than tliis poet. 
He now [1833] resides in Paris, and may thence make the grand 
tour without the aid of an interpreter — speaking, as he does, 
French, Italian, and G-erman, as fluently as English. 

2. [10th of October, 1812, the day of opening.] 

3. Congreve's plug. The late Sir William Congreve had made 
a model of Drury Lane Theatre, to which was affixed an engine 
that, in the event of fire, was made to play from the stage into 
every box in the house. The writer, accompanied by Theodore 
Hook, went to see the model at Sir William's house in Cecil 
Street. " Now I'll duck Wliitbread I" said Hook, seizing the 
water-pipe whilst he spoke, and sending a torrent of water into 
the brewer's box. 

4. See Byron, afterwards^ in Don Juan : — 

" For flesh is grass, which Time mows down to hay." 

But as Johnson says of Dryden, " His known wealth was so 
great, he might borrow without any impeachment of Ms credit." 



XII.— FIRE AND ALE. 

BY M. G. L. [MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.] 
[Mr. Lewis died 14th May, 1818, in his forty-third year.] 

" ' Fire and Ale,' by M. Gr. Lewis, exhibits not only a faitliful 
copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singu- 
lar author, but a very just representation of that mixture of 
extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his 
writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror." — Jeffrey, 
Edinhurgli Review. 

Matthew Gregory Lewis, commonly called Monh Lewis, from 
his once popular romance of that name, was a good-he;irted man, 
amd, like too many of that fraternity, a disagreeable one — verbose, 
disputatious, and paradoxical. His Monh and Castle Spectre ele- 
vated him into fame ; and he continued to write ghost-stories tiQ, 
following as he did in the wake of ]\frs. Radcliffe, he quite over- 
stocked the market. Lewis visited his estates in Jamaica, and 
came back perfectly negro-bitten. He promulgated a new code of 
laws in the island, for the government of his sable subjects : one 



408 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

may serve as a specimen : '■ Any slave M^ho commits murder shall 
have his head shaved, and be confined three days and nights in a 
dark room." Upon occasion of printing these parocUes, Monh 
Lewis said to Lady H[olland], " Many of them are very fair, but 
mine is not at all like ; they have made me write burlesque, which 
I never do." " You don't know your own talent," answered the 
lady. 

Lewis aptly described himself, as to externals, in the verses 
affixed to his Monh, as having 

" A graceless form and dwarfish stature." 

He had, moreover, large grey eyes, thick features, and an inex- 
pressive countenance. In talking, he had a disagreeable habit of 
drawing the fore-finger of his right hand across his right eye-hd. 
He affected, in conversation, a sort of dandified, drawUng tone ; 
young Harlowe, the artist, did the same. A foreigner who had 
but a slight knowledge of the Enghsh language might have con- 
cluded, from their cadences, that they were httle better than 
fools — "just a born goose," as Terry the actor used to say. 
Lewis died on his passage homeward from Jamaica, owing to a 
dose of James's powders injudiciously administered by " his own 
mere motion." He wrote various plays, with various success: 
he had admirable notion of dramatic construction, but the good- 
ness of his scenes and incidents was marred by the badness of 
his dialogue. 



XIII.— PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS. 

BY S. T. C. [S. T. COLERIDGE.] 
[Mr. Coleridge died 25tli July, 1834, in his sixty-second year.] 

" Mr. Coleridge will not, we fear, be as much entertained as 
"we were with his ' Playhouse Musings,' which begin with char- 
acteristic pathos and simplicity, and put us much in mind of th^ 
affecting story of old Poulterer's mare." Quarterly Review. 

" ' Playhouse Musings,' by Mr. Coleridge, a piece which is un- 
questionably Lakish, though we cannot say that we recognise in 
it any of the peculiar traits of that powerful and misdirected 
genius whose name it has borrowed. We ratlier think, however, 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 409 

that tlie tuneful brotherhood will consider it as a respectable 
eclogue." — Jeffrey, Edinburgh Review. 

1. " He of Blackfriars' Road," viz., the late Rev. Rowland Hill, 
who is said to have preached a sermon congratulating his con- 
gregation on the catastrophe. 

2. " Oh, Mr. Whitbread I" Sir William G-rant, then Master of 
the RoUs, repeated tliis passage aloud at a Lord Mayor's dinner, 
to the no small astonisliment of the writer, who happened to sit 
within ear-shot. 

3. " Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in 
Padmanaba. This elephant [Chunee], some years afterwards, 
was exliibited over Exeter 'Change, where, the reader wiU re- 
member, it was found necessary [March, 1826] to destroy the 
poor animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his en- 
trance in the pantomime above mentioned, Johnson, the machin- 
ist of the rival house, exclaimed, " I should be veiy sorry if I 
could not make a better elephant than that !" Johnson was right : 
we go to the theatre to be pleased with the skill of tlie imitator, 
and not to look at the reality. 



XIV.— DRURY LAKE HUSTINGS. 

A NEW HALFPENNY BALLAD. 
BY A PIC-NIC POET. 

" ' A New Halfpenny BaUad,' by a Pic-Nic Poet, is a good 
imitation of what was not worth imitating — that tremendous 
mixture of vulgarity, nonsense, impudence, and miserable puns, 
which, under the name of humorous songs, rouses our pohte au- 
diences to a far higher pitch of rapture than Garrick or Siddons 
ever was able to inspire." — Jeffrey, Edinburgh Revieio. 

1. [Mr. Whitbread — it need hardly be added for the present 
generation of Londoners — was a celebrated brewer. Fifty years 
hence, and the allusion in the text may require a note which, 
perhaps, even now (1851), is scarcely out of place.] 
18 



410 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 



XV.— ARCHITECTUEAL ATOMS. 

TRANSLATED BY DR. B, [dR. THOMAS BUSBY, MUS. DOC] 

Dr. Busby gave living recitations of his translations of Lucre- 
iiuSj witli tea and bread-and-butter. He sent in a real Address 
to the Drury Lane Committee, which was really rejected. The 
present imitation professes to be recited by the translator's son. 
The poet here, again, was a prophet. A few evenings after the 
opening of the Theatre, Dr. Busby sat with his son in one of 
the stage-boxes. The latter, to the astonishment of the audience, 
at the end of the play, stepped from the box upon the stage, 
with his father's real rejected address in his hand, and began to 
recite it as foUows : — 

" When energising objects men pursue. 
What are the prodigies they cannot do f" 

Raymond, the stage-manager, accompanied by a constable, at 
this moment walked upon the stage, and handed away the ju- 
venile diUettante performer. 

The doctor's classical translation was thus noticed in one of 
the newspapers of the day, in the column of births : — " Yester- 
day at his house in Queen Anne Street, Dr. Busby of a still- 
born Lucretius." 

" In one single point the parodist has faUed — there is a certain 
Dr. Busby, whose supposed address is a translation called ' Archi- 
tectural Atoms, intended to be recited by the translator's son.' 
Unluckily, however, for the wag who had prepared this fim, the 
genuine serious absurdity of Dr. Busby and liis son has cast all 
the humour into the shade. The doctor from the boxes, and the 
son from the stage, have actually endeavoured, it seems, to recite 
addresses, which they call monologues and unalogues; and whicli, 
for extravagant foUy, tumid meanness, and vulgar affectation, set 
aU the powers of parody at utter defiance." — Quarterly Review. 

" Of ' Architectural Atoms,' translated by Dr. Busby, we can 
say very little more than that they appear to us to be far more 
capable of combining into good poetry than the few lines we 
were able to read of the learned doctor's genuine address in the 
newspapers. They might pass, indeed, for a very tolerable imi- 
tation of Darwin." — Jeffrey, Edinburgh Review. 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 411 

" 1. Winsor's patent gas" — at that time in its infancy. The 
first place illumined by it was [Jan. 28th, 1807] the Carlton- 
house side of Pall Mall; the second, Bishopsgate Street. The 
■writer attended a lecture given by the inventor : the charge of 
admittance Avas three shilhngs, but, as the inventor vras about 
to apply to parliament, members of both houses were admitted 
gratis. The writer and a fellow-jester assumed the parts of sen- 
ators at a short notice. " Members of par hament!" was their 
important ejaculation at the door of entrance. " What places, 
gentlemen?" " Old Sarum and Bridgewater." " Walk in, gen- 
tlemen." Luckily, the real Simon Pures did not attend. This 
Pall Mall illumination was further noticed in Horace in London : 

" And Winsor lights, with flame of gas. 
Home, to King's Place, his mother." 

2. " Ticket-nights." This phrase is probably unintelligible to 
the untheatrical portion of the community, which may now 
be said to be all the world except the actors. Ticket-nights are 
those whereon the inferior actors club for a benefit : each dis- 
tributes as many tickets of admission as he is able among his 
friends. A motley assemblage is the consequence ; and as each 
actor is encouraged by liis own set, who are not in general play- 
going people, the applause comes (as Chesterfield says of Pope's 
attempts at wit) " generally unseasonably, and too often unsuc- 
cessfully." 

3. [Originally: — "Back to the bottom leaping with a hound" 
altered in 1833.] 



XVI.— THEATEICAL ALARM-BELL. 

BY THE EDITOR OF THE M. P. 
[moeneng post.] 

This journal was, at the period in question, rather remarkable 
for the use of the figure called by the rhetoricians catachresis. 
The Bard of Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, 
when he writes of taking arms against a sea, and seeking a 
bubble in the mouth of a cannon. The Morning Post, in the 
year 1812, congratulated its readers on having stripped off 
Cobbett's mask and discovered his cloven foot ; adding, that it 
was high time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on the 
knuckles I 



412 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 



XVII.— THE THEATRE. 

BY THE REV. G. C. [tHE EEV. GEORGE CRABBE.] 
[Mr. Crabbe died 3rd February, 1S32, in his seventy-eighth year.] 

" ' The Theatre,' by the Rev. Gr. Crabbe, we rather think, is 
the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most mas- 
terly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, 
temper, and manner of description of that most original author ; 
and can hardly be said to be in any respect a caricature of that 
style or manner — except in the excessive profusion of puns and 
verbal jingles — which, though undoubtedly to be ranked among 
his characteristics, are never so thick sown in his original works 
as in tliis admirable imitation. It does not aim, of course, at any 
shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a 
singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description." — 
Jeffrey, Edinburgh Revieiu. 

The Rev. Gteorge Crabbe. The writer's first interview with 
this poet, who may be designated Pope in worsted stockings, 
took place at WiUiam Spencer's villa at Petersham, close to what 
that gentleman called his gold-fish pond, though it was scarcely 
three feet in diameter, throwing up a jet cPeau like a thread. The 
venerable bard, seizing both the hands of his satirist, exclaimed, 
with a good-humoured laugh, " Ah ! my old enemy, how do you 
do ?" In the course of conversation, he expressed great aston- 
ishment at his popularity in London ; adding, " In my own vil- 
lage they think nothing of me." The subject happening to be 
the inroads of time upon beauty, the writer quoted the following 
lines : — 

" Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six, 
"When Time began to play his usual tricks : 
My locks, once comely in a virgin's sight, 
Locks of pure brown, now felt th' encroaching white ; 
Gradual each day I liked my horses less. 
My dinner more — I learnt to play at chess." 

" That 's very good !" cried the bard ; — " whose is it ?" " Your 
own." " Indeed 1 hah ! well, I had quite forgotten it." Was 
tills affectation, or was it not ? In sooth, he seemed to push sim- 
plicity to puerility. Tliis imitation contained in manuscript the 
following hues, after describing certain Sunday newspaper critics 



NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 413 

who were supposed to be present at a new play, and who were 
rather heated in theh poUtics : — 

" Hard is the task who edits — thankless job I 
A Sunday journal for the factious mob ; 
With bitter paragraph and caustic jest, 
He gives to turbulence the day of rest ; 
Condemn' d, this week, rash rancour to instil, 
Or throwa aside, the next, for one who will : 
Alike undone or if he praise or rail 
(For this affects his safety, that his sale). 
He sinks at last, in luckless limbo set. 
If loud for libel, and if dumb for debt." 

They were, however, never printed ; being, on reflection, con- 
sidered too serious for the occasion. 

It is not a Httle extraordinary that Crabbe, who could write 
with such vigour, should descend to such Unes as the following : 

" Something had happen' d wrong about a bill 
Which was not drawn with true mercantile skill, 
So, to amend it, I was told to go 
And seek the firm of Clutterbuck and Co." 

Surely " Emanuel Jennings," compared with the above, rises 
to subUmity. 

1. [You were more feeUng than I was, when you read the ex- 
cellent parodies of the young men who wrote the " Eejected 
Addresses." There is a httle Ul-nature — and I take the liberty 
of adding, undeserved ill-nature — in their prefatory address ; but 
in their versification they have done me admirably. They are 
extraordinary men ; but it is easier to imitate style than to fur- 
nish matter. — Crabbe ( Works, i. vol. Ed., p. 81.)] 

2. [A street and parish in Lime Street Ward, London — chiefly 
inliabited by Jews.] 



XYIIL, XIX., XX.— TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE 
OF THE NEW DRURY LANE THEATRE. 

" We come next to three ludicrous parodies — of the story of 
File Strange?', of George Barnwell, and of the dagger-scene in 
Macbeth, under the signature of Momus Medlar. They are as 
good, we think, as that sort of thing can be, and remind us of the 



414 NOTES TO THE REJECTED ADDRESSES. 

happier eflforts of Colman, whose less successful fooleries are pro- 
fessedly copied in the last piece in the volume." — Jeffrey, Edin- 
hurgh Review. 

1. [A translation from Kotzebue by Thompson, and first acted 
at Drury Lane, 24 March, 1798. Mrs. Siddons was famous in 
the part of Mrs. Haller.] 

2. [See Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, vol. iii. ; 
and Lillo's tragedy, " The London Merchant ; or, the History of 
George Barnwell." 8vo. 1731.] 



XXI.— PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS. 



[Mr. Hook died 24th August, 1841, in his fifty-third year.] 

Theodore Hook, at that time a very young man, and the com- 
panion of the annotator in many wild froHcs. The cleverness of 
his subsequent prose compositions has cast his early stage songs 
into oblivion. This parody was, in the second edition, transferred 
from Colman to Hook. 

1. Then Director of the Opera House. 

2. At that time the chief dancer at this establishment. 

3. Vauxhall Bridge then, Uke the Thames Tunnel at present 
[1833] stood suspended in the middle of that river. 






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